


I Can Never Go Home (Part 2): The Never Ending Road

by fanspired



Series: The Song Remains the Same [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Romance, Ghosts, Horror, Hunters & Hunting, Incidental character death, Language, M/M, Mystery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thriller, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanspired/pseuds/fanspired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Go back to the beginning . . . and take a different road . . . </p>
  <p>    <img/></p>
</div>Attempting to escape from his violent past and the demands of his hunter family, Sam Campbell is struggling to make a life for himself in a new town when a death vision of his employer’s wife and son, under horribly familiar circumstances, draws him back into old ways and the hunt for his mother’s killer.<p>After the Demon attacks the Winchester family, Sam must protect and prepare John's shell-shocked son, Dean - a task that is complicated by Sam's growing attraction for the irritating but charismatic music student. When a couple disappear on a lonely Californian road it provides an opportunity to initiate Dean into the dark mysteries of the Supernatural.</p>
<p>A/N: Second of a two part pilot for an episodic serial that mimics the formula of the original show. <b>Can be read as a stand alone story.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Scene 1

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is the second of the two part pilot of an episodic serial, The Song Remains the Same, that mimics the format and style of the original show. There is an ongoing slash romance sub-plot (manifesting mainly as UST nuances in the early episodes), but each episode contains a self-contained adventure plot that can be read as a stand alone story. 
> 
> A summary of the story so far will be given at the opening of Chapter 1. For the full story read the previous part of this series, I Can Never Go Home (Part 1): Visions and Revisions.
> 
> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DISCLAIMERS: I should like to offer my grateful thanks to yelynx for the superb banners for Parts 1 and 2, and to my most loyal supporter for being my beta-reader, and I offer my apologies to the writers and creators of Supernatural for my use and abuse of their original material. Allusions to other fandoms will be acknowledged when the closing chapter is posted. I write for love only. _Supernatural_ belongs to Eric Kripke/the CW
> 
> Originally posted at FF, LJ, Sinful Desires and the Sam/Dean Slash Archive. This episode has now been TRANSLATED into RUSSIAN by the very talented yelynx Her master post is available at http://yelynx.livejournal.com/17155.html

**PROLOGUE**

_SO FAR:_

Attempting to escape from his violent past, Sam Campbell is struggling to make a life for himself in a new town when a death vision of his employer's wife and son, under horribly familiar circumstances, draws him back into old ways. His efforts to protect the Winchester family are complicated by his growing attraction for the irritating but charismatic son, Dean, a music major recently suspended from college. When a yellow-eyed demon possesses John and kills his wife, Amanda, Sam is powerless to stop it - but John breaks free of its influence just long enough for Sam to carry the unconscious Dean from the burning house. Now Sam must protect Dean from the demon who has threatened his life.

 

NOW:

**_Castor's Passage, California_ **

  
The silence in the car was tense and chilled. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes. There were tears standing in the woman's eyes and at length she turned to her husband a face that was at once stony and angry, yet pleading.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" she demanded.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he sighed. "I've told you I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough!"

"I can't keep having this conversation! I told you, she didn't mean anything to me."

"Well, while it was going on _I_ didn't mean anything to you, did I?"

When he answered her with more silence she turned her face toward the passenger window and stared at her own trembling lips reflected in the darkness beyond the glass. Slowly and mechanically her gaze gravitated toward the front of the car where the broken white lines disappeared under the far edge of the hood. Soon she was mesmerized by the repetitive, unchanging rhythm. She began to trace the lines back to where they stretched into the distance, into the unknown, unforgiving and inescapable future. Anxiety and fear began to constrict her chest as she stared at that distant point. She was suddenly possessed by the conviction that the road had no end, that she was being driven inexorably into the darkness of the eternal abyss. Even as the thought took shape she exhaled a breath that spilled from her lips in a frosted cloud.

Her husband spoke again and, at first, his oddly flat statements seemed to echo her own thoughts, but then they quickly ceased to make any sense at all.

"We've been on this road forever, and it was always leading us here. Whatever we did, whatever we tried to do, it was always going to come to this. This thing between us, these feelings . . . they're cursed, damned. They've made monsters of us both. There's only one way this can end."

She stared at him blankly. "What? What are you – ?"

Suddenly he floored the gas pedal and the car leapt forward.

"Wait! Stop!" But her words froze in her mouth as her attention snapped to the road ahead, at the moment that it vanished beneath them . . .

Then they were falling and falling, and she was screaming, but her cries were cut short by the sounds of shattering glass and grinding metal then the long, mournful wail of the horn . . . . .  
  


  
 **SCENE 1**  


Dean stumbled mechanically down the steps from the police station. When he saw the Impala parked in the road outside it briefly raised him from his stupor. Running forward, he snatched open the passenger door. "Dad!" he cried, his heart thumping. But it wasn't his father in the driver's seat, and the crushing disappointment came out of him in the form of irrational anger. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Dean, get in the car."

He blinked for a moment then obeyed automatically. The tone of authority in Sam's voice was so uncannily like Dad's it seemed natural to do as he was told. And, truthfully, it was a relief to have someone telling him what to do because Dean didn't have a clue. About anything. At all.

Sam didn't say anything. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer condolences. He just gunned the engine, steered the car out into the road and drove. That was a relief as well. Talking was too hard. Thinking was hard. Everything was hard . . . and too bright. Dean leaned back against the head rest and closed his eyes against the glare of a world grown suddenly menacing and strange, but as his eyelids dropped it was as if the flames and the blood and the death mask of his mother's face were imprinted on the back of them, and he was instantly upright and staring ahead of him, though nothing that was before his eyes made any impression on him.

Then his cell phone buzzed. The vibration in his pocket goaded him like a cattle prod against exposed nerves. He reached into his pocket as an automaton and winced as he read the name on the screen. Chad.

 _No. Go away._

He waited until the call diverted to his voicemail then checked his missed calls. There were seventeen. One from Chad, one from Emily, one from Jimmy, a number he didn't recognize, one from Stan . . . he should answer that . . . but not just now . . . one from Wendy, eleven from Penny. Why did she do that? Did she think he hadn't got the first ten?

Even as he held the phone in his hand it buzzed once more, and he winced again.

 _Leave me alone._

It was Penny again. His thumb hovered irresolutely over the answer button then punched down grimly. Gritting his teeth, he held the phone to his ear.

"Dean! Thank god! Are you ok?" _No. I'm not ok._ "I've been so worried about you. I've been trying to reach you for ages."

"I'm ok," he assured her, shaking his head. "I've been talking to the police."

There was a brief silence at the other end of the line, then she asked "Do they have any idea what happened?"

Dean shook his head then remembered she couldn't see him. "They don't have a clue. They're saying accident. It wasn't an accident, Pen. What I saw – " but he didn't want to talk about what he saw again. It was insane and people didn't believe him, anyway. They thought he was insane. Maybe he was. He wished he was. "I don't think they believe it, either. They keep asking me about Dad, but I don't know where he is, Pen! And I'm worried sick about him but, because he's gone missing, I think they suspect . . . It's sick. They don't know what happened so they just . . . If Sam hadn't been there they'd probably suspect me as well."

"Dean, as soon as I can get away here I'll get the next available flight – "

"No, don't do that."

"I want to be there for you – "

"There's nowhere for you to stay – "

"So, we'll get a motel."

Then he'd have to talk, he'd have to think about her, worry about her. "Look, just wait a bit, would you please, Babe? Just 'til I know what I'm doing, ok?"

There was a pause. "I just want to be there for you, Dean."

"I know. And I appreciate it, Babe. I really do, but it's just . . . right now . . ." _Leave me alone just now. Please just leave me alone._ "Listen, I can't talk right now. Can I call you back?"

"Dean, I just – "

"I'll call you back later, ok?"

"Dean – "

"I'll call you back." He closed the phone and for a few moments he held it pressed against his forehead then he turned it off and threw it into the back.

After a brief period of silence Sam asked "Have you eaten? Shall I call in at a diner?"

"I'm not hungry," Dean replied hoarsely.

Sam nodded and didn't speak again.

Dean was glad to be relieved of the effort of making conversation, but even the silence that replaced it was invasive. His own thoughts – mere images and noise, but violent and horrid – assaulted and tormented him. He reached forward and turned on the radio. Even the inane chatter of the radio jock was an irritation he couldn't cope with at that moment, but it was cut off when he pushed the cassette into the slot. AC/DC blasted out of the speakers, and he turned up the volume until it was far too loud, but it drowned out the white noise in his head. The familiar chords and lyrics came loaded with their own unique baggage of association and exquisite pain but that, at least, was something he could focus on that made sense.

It hadn't occurred to him to ask Sam where they were going, yet he was vaguely surprised when they pulled into the driveway of a cheap motel on the outskirts of the town. What had he expected? It wasn't as if he could ever go home –

Sam parked in front of one of the ground level rooms and got out of the car. Dean heard the trunk open and close, then the passenger door opened and Sam stood beside it clutching a room key in one hand and holding a grocery bag in the other.

"Dean, come on."

Dean lifted himself out of the car and followed Sam into the room. He leaned against the dividing partition between the kitchenette and bedroom area, while Sam emptied the contents of the bag: milk, eggs, cocoa, fruit juice, other small unidentifiable packages, carton of salt . . .

As Dean watched he picked up the latter, walked over to the door with it and started pouring a white line in a semi-circle around the entrance. He poured a similar line along the window sills before disappearing into the bathroom, carton still in hand. _Salt round the entrances . . ._ That comforted Dean somehow. It reminded him of something from when he was a child. What was it? . . . Salt was lucky. It protected you from monsters.

Sam was protecting them from monsters.

 _Good._

. . .

Dean frowned.

. . .

 _What?_

. . .

Dean's focus began to pick out other objects that had been introduced into the room: Sam's back-pack on the bed nearest the door, a shotgun lying next to it, a jar of water with a crucifix in the bottom sitting on the nightstand, odd shells placed around it . . . Dean had a vague idea that these things should be worrying him . . .

Sam returned from the bathroom and put down the salt carton. Then he opened a cupboard, took out a plastic beaker, filled it with milk and started adding eggs and other items.

"Sam . . . what are we doing here?" Dean asked.

Sam walked over to the bed and rummaged in his backpack. He pulled out and opened a leather pouch that held a number of smaller pouches. "It's just temporary," he replied, "until we figure out what our next move is."

"Oh . . . ok."

Sam returned to the counter and poured some of the contents of a couple of the small pouches into the beaker.

Dean frowned again . . . _our next move_. . . ?

Sam was shaking the beaker vigorously now. Once satisfied the contents were mixed he took off the lid, added a straw and held it out to Dean. "Drink this," he said.

Dean gazed blankly at it for a moment. "What is it?"

"Basic protein shake."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need something, Dean. Just drink it."

Sam turned the straw around and pushed it close to Dean's mouth. He didn't have the will to argue. His lips closed over the straw and he took a sip. It was sweet and chocolaty tasting, and there was something oddly comforting about the action of sucking on the straw and feeling the cool liquid enter his mouth and trickle down his throat. Sam held the beaker for him throughout the process, drawing the straw away occasionally to allow Dean to pause for breath, but persistently replacing it in front of Dean's lips until he had drained the contents of the beaker. As he sucked up the last dregs he started to feel a little strange.

"Feel woozy . . ." he mumbled.

"I put something in the shake that'll help you sleep."

"Don't want to . . ."

"You need to rest, Dean."

Dean swayed. The room was going dark and blotchy. "Strong . . ." he murmured, just as Sam caught him and sat him down on the bed. He felt himself being guided down, felt his feet being guided onto the bed and his shoes pulled off, felt the softness of the pillow under his head . . . . .

He looked like a little boy when he was asleep – features softened, hair flopping over his forehead, eye-lashes fanning over his cheeks, jaw slack, lips slightly parted. He looked so vulnerable, and as Sam watched the steady rise and fall of his chest he was filled with a kind of helpless anxiety the like of which he couldn't recall having felt before, for anyone. What more could he do to protect this ill-fated ingénue?

Sam didn't believe in coincidences. He knew it wasn't happenstance that had led him to this town, to Winchester and Copes, or to Dean's home. For good or ill, the same power that sent the visions had drawn him to Dean's side, and now he felt called to help him rise from the wreckage of his blasted life. Somehow he had to prepare the hapless young man to face the threat the Demon had made against him. But what could Sam do? The confrontation with the Demon had left him with a brutal awareness of his own impotence. None of the protective charms he'd used had worked. Would the salt lines work? The holy water? The cat's eye shells? Could he count on any of the lore he'd learned, or was the Demon above it all? Still Sam surrounded them with the paraphernalia of the life he'd tried so hard to renounce, and fell back into the habits of his former training because . . . what else could he do?

While the police had questioned Dean he'd returned to the house and salvaged everything he thought they'd find necessary or helpful. In the process he'd discovered that John's "no firearms" rule hadn't extended to the basement. There he'd found a locked cache where the former marine had stored some useful weaponry. A visit to a hunting shop had supplied other necessary items, and while Dean slept he organized his acquisitions in the bottom of the Impala's trunk. If it pained him to have to return to the life of a hunter, dragging Dean into it was worse, but how else was Dean going to learn to defend himself?

He'd brought Dean's laptop as well. It took only a few minutes to crack his password and then Sam killed the time while Dean slept surfing for demon omens. He found nothing definitive and that aroused mixed feelings. He knew that Dean was going to want to find his father, but he also knew there was nothing they could do at this time to help the man, so the lack of demon sign was almost a relief. On the other hand, it was never reassuring when things were too quiet. Sam glanced anxiously at his sleeping companion. He itched to be on the road. He'd feel safer once they were presenting a moving target. But, if he hoped to gain Dean's trust he couldn't simply whisk him away while he slept (though, admittedly, the thought had crossed his mind). No, Dean needed to be coherent enough to make a choice.

Almost unconsciously Sam began to widen his search parameters and before long he realized he was no longer looking for demon omens, he was hunting for a case.


	2. Scenes 2 & 3

  **SCENE 2**

  
When Dean woke up he wondered for a moment why he wasn't in his own room. Then he remembered. He sat up with a violent shudder. Sam paused from what he was doing - putting things away in the back-pack - and studied him.

"Do you remember where you are?" he asked.

"Yeah." Dean's head felt a little clearer now. He didn't necessarily count that as a good thing. "What time is it?"

"Just after dawn," Sam replied and when Dean frowned, a little puzzled, he added "Saturday morning." He walked over to the kitchenette and spooned coffee into a mug.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Man! What did you put in that shake?"

"You needed the sleep." Sam returned with the coffee and handed it to Dean.

Before drinking Dean sniffed it cautiously. It smelled dicked with. "What have you put in _this_?"

A ghost of a smile touched Sam's lips. "Just whisky."

"Oh." _What the hell._ Dean swallowed a mouthful of the dark brew. He grimaced a little from the bitterness and the rasp of the alcohol, but he appreciated the warmth of the liquid as it went down.

"You should take a shower," Sam told him. "Then we'll go out and get breakfast. We need to talk."

 _Oh, fuck._ That sounded ominous. Nothing good ever followed the phrase "we need to talk."

"I got you a change of clothes. I hope they're OK. I had to guess at your size."

Sam handed him a small pile of garments that were crisp with newness.

Why had he bought new clothes? Why hadn't he just – Then Dean understood, and he didn't want to think about it. "What do I owe you for these?" he asked.

"Later. Go shower."

There was no telling how long Dean might have stayed in the shower just letting the hot water run over him, but when it started to run cold it brought him back to his senses and he hastily finished washing then dried himself and dressed. Sam hadn't done a bad job of judging the sizes.

"The shirt's a bit big for you," he commented as Dean returned to the main room.

"I'll grow into it," Dean quipped half-heartedly.

The odd assortment of effects that had littered the room the previous day had disappeared. Everything was packed up. Apparently they were on the move. But where to?

Sam handed Dean another coffee and he accepted it, but with a small pause. Not that he didn't appreciate the care Sam was taking of him, but he was just starting to wonder . . . why was he? And why was Dean accepting his attentions so readily? They'd only just met and yet here they were shacked up in a motel together like they were family or something. It was weird. Yet it felt natural, as if it had always been this way.

"Dean, sit down for a moment, would you?"

 _Uh-oh._ Now it was coming. Whatever "it" was. Dean was afraid he wasn't going to be able to cope with "it". His legs felt wobbly as he dropped onto the bed, and Sam sat down opposite him on the adjacent bed. He sat gazing at the floor for a few moments with his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced. Oh, something bad was coming. Dean could feel it.

"Dean . . . what happened to your mother wasn't an accident. You know that, don't you?"

The air left Dean's lungs in a rush. Yeah, he did know that. But it still felt like a body blow to have Sam confirm it so bluntly.

"Yeah . . . right . . ." his voice came out breathily, in little more than a whisper " . . . 'cause you saw, didn't you, Sam? You saw what she . . . where she . . . you _saw_!"

Sam nodded. "Yes, Dean. I saw," Sam confirmed gently.

"Well, you've got to talk to the police, Sam," Dean was speaking a little more forcefully now, but he still hadn't fully found his voice. "You've got to tell them what you know. They think – "

"I've spoken to the police, Dean. Trust me, they can't help us. This is outside their experience."

"But Dad's in trouble, Sam, if he isn't dead already. I can feel it!"

"Yes, he is in trouble."

Again with the body blow.

"But there's nothing you can do to help him just right now and, the thing is, you're in danger, too, Dean."

"I am? But why – ?"

"Dean, you're mother's dead and your father's missing. You do the math."

 _Man._ The dude wasn't pulling any punches.

"You want some more whisky with that?" Sam indicated the coffee that was listing precariously in Dean's hands. Dean nodded dumbly. Sam went to his pack and came back with a small flask that he emptied into Dean's mug.

Dean took a gulp and coughed slightly. "S – so . . . are you saying you know something about all this, Sam?"

Sam sat down and stared at the floor again then he took a breath. "I'm someone who knows something about something. Let's just say I've come across cases like this before. I've had experience investigating things the police aren't equipped to deal with. My 'skills', as you referred to them the other night, . . . that's how I got them. I was brought up that way. I've spent my life . . . well, you could call it the family business."

Dean tried to absorb what Sam was telling him, but he didn't feel like he was getting the whole picture. "So you're . . . what? . . . like a P. I.?"

Sam hesitated. "Something like that, I guess."

They were silent for a few moments and Dean took another gulp of coffee. "Sam, do you think there's a chance Dad's still alive?"

Sam paused for a moment but then nodded. "Probably . . ." he seemed to be about to add something but thought better of it.

"Well, then we have to find him, Sam!" Dean cried. "We have to – "

"We will, Dean. I promise. Trust me, I want to find him as much as you do. But right now I don't have any leads – "

Dean made to interrupt but Sam forestalled him. "I'm looking, Dean. And as soon as I have something concrete I'll tell you, but we can't go off half-cocked. We need to be ready when we act. We need to be sure we know what we're doing and right now . . . right now you just need to get out of town, Dean. We need to get you away from here and under the radar."

Dean blinked uncomprehendingly. "Get out of . . . ? Sam I can't just leave town right now. I have stuff . . . things I have to . . . Mum's – " he swallowed on the harsh reality of what he was about to say and his voice was hoarse as he continued. "I have to arrange Mum's funeral and there's other stuff – "

"That's taken care of."

". . . What?"

"Your mother's family's taking care of it. I spoke to your uncle . . . your uncle Ben? He's handling the arrangements. And Stan'll take care of the business. Everything's taken care of, Dean."

"Whoa!" This was just a little too much care and attention. Dean was starting to feel just a little single-white-femaled. "Wait a minute, Sam! Just . . . you can't just . . . Dude, you're really starting to freak me out now!"

Sam stared off to one side and nodded. "You're right, Dean," he said. Then he turned back and held Dean's gaze with a kind of anxious, puppy-dog sincerity in his expression that Dean had no answer for. "You're right to be freaked out. This is a totally fucked-up situation. But you're the De – you're the next target, Dean. You get that, do you?"

Dean stood up. He clasped his hands over his head as if he was trying to keep it on. Was any of this even _real_? "But why? Why, Sam? What is all this? Is it a serial killer? A mob thing? Why is all this _happening_?"

Sam rose to his feet as well. "Dean, I don't know. I don't have all the answers right now. I just have a lot of questions and speculation. But I can help you. Let me help you, Dean."

Dean glanced into Sam's eyes and his attention was caught by the blue hues shining in their depths. What was it about that blue light that seemed to instantly claim his loyalty and his trust?

"I know it's hard, Dean. I know we just met and we don't know each other from Adam, but I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing. I just need you to give me a chance to prove that to you."

Dean shook his head in bewilderment. "So, what do you . . . you want us to just go, just like that? Just jump in the car and drive? Now?"

Sam didn't answer with words, but his expression was clear.

"Where?" Dean asked, almost fearfully.

Sam turned toward the kitchenette. For the first time Dean noticed there was a laptop open on the table. _Hang on. His laptop!_

Sam turned the screen toward him. "I've been researching a missing persons case at Castor's Passage. A couple disappeared last week while they were driving along the Lestridge Road. The cops found the car but no bodies. They're the tenth couple to go missing in the last twenty years on that same stretch of road. I think we should look into it."

Dean stared at the screen but he didn't have the wherewithal to read the reports Sam had been surfing there. There was only one issue he could focus on at the moment. "Missing persons?" he repeated. "Are you saying you think this is related to Dad's disappearance?"

A beat, then Sam nodded slightly. "Indirectly." He continued, a little hurriedly. "At the very least I think it'll give you an idea of the kind of thing we're up against. I've taken a look at the route. We could be there in three hours. Before we go, though, I want to check we've got everything we need. I went back to the house yesterday and picked up some stuff for you. I made a list. You should take a look at it and tell me if you can think of anything I missed."

Dean had a sense that he was being railroaded, but the missing persons case was a focus. It gave him a sense of doing something constructive. But three hours away?

"I should . . . call a few people before we leave."

Sam sucked a breath through his teeth. He looked doubtful. "Ok," he said. "But keep the list as short as you can. And don't tell them exactly where you're going. Just say you're going on a road trip . . . taking some time out to deal. Then you should get rid of your old phone. It could be used to trace you. We'll get you a new one."

Dean's brain was beginning to buzz. He hoped he _was_ right putting his trust in Sam because it seemed every move he was making now was putting him more and more in the strange young man's hands.

"Sam . . . how did you get my password . . . for my laptop?" he asked.

"It didn't take long to guess. Cherry pie's your favourite, right?"

Dean blinked. "How did you know?"

"You said. At the bar."

"Uh huh." Dean nodded, a little open mouthed. "So, you were just borrowing it to research that case, right? You didn't like . . . read my emails or stuff while you were there?" Dean noted with relief that Sam actually looked a little shocked at the suggestion. To lighten the moment he added "and I don't want to find any gay porn in my search history next time I log on, either."

For a moment Sam looked a little stunned then he just rolled his eyes and walked out to the car while Dean made his calls. After the conversation/argument with Penny he decided just to text everyone else. He couldn't blame her for doubting the wisdom of what he was doing, and he couldn't logically justify the faith he was putting in Sam, so he wound up just getting belligerent and bloody minded. The call didn't end well. Throwing the cell phone into a trash can came easily after that.

"Problem?" Sam asked as Dean walked up to the Impala.

Dean indicated with a sharp jerk of his head that he didn't want to talk about it. Sam handed him a list and opened the trunk, and Dean found himself staring at the salvaged remains of his former home.

He couldn't focus on the list. It was hard enough to fix on the contents of the trunk as his vision began to blur.

"I tried to think of everything you might need," Sam said. "If there's anything else you can think of, we can make a stop before we leave. Only stuff you really need, though, Dean. And only if it was downstairs. If it was on the upper level . . ." Sam's voice trailed off and he left the thought unfinished.

Dean's finger trailed over the spine of a leather bound album that sat to one side of the trunk. "You brought photos . . ." His voice was a whisper.

Sam nodded. "Well, people always say they'd save the photo albums, don't they?" He shrugged. "I sometimes wish I'd brought a couple with . . ." He hitched in a breath. "Was there anything else?"

For long moments Dean couldn't think of anything. Anything at all. Then, as he stared at the flotsam and jetsam of his life it occurred to him there was something missing.

"My guitar," he whispered hoarsely.

"Stuff you really need, Dean."

"I need it."

Sam gazed at him for a beat then nodded. "Was it downstairs?"

Dean frowned. He couldn't remember.

"I'll look for it." Sam took the list from Dean's numb fingers and he felt the pressure of a warm hand against his back as Sam guided him to the front of the car.

Afterwards Dean could never recall them returning to the house. Perhaps Sam had parked in a different road. He vaguely remembered him returning with the guitar and placing it on the back seat. There was another brief fuel stop where Sam had tried to persuade him to eat some breakfast. He'd wound up leaving that on the back seat, too. Everything went by in a haze. In the end, Dean couldn't even remember having left town.

 

**SCENE 3**

 

_♫No stop signs_   
_Speed limit_   
_Nobody's gonna slow me down_   
_Like a wheel_   
_Gonna spin it_   
_Nobody's gonna mess me 'round . . . ♫_

  
"Dean?"

   
♫ _Hey Satan  
Paid my dues . . . ♫_

  
"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"I was just wondering . . . do you still need that up quite so loud?"

Dean looked up from the laptop. The request was made very gently, but Sam looked tense . . . pretty much all over. After three hours of AC/DC, Metallica, Motorhead, and now AC/DC again, played pretty much full blast, Dean conceded it probably wasn't surprising. He reached forward and turned down the volume then returned to his research.

"Thanks." Sam relaxed visibly. The wonder was that he hadn't raised an objection sooner.

Somewhere between Metallica and Motorhead they'd stopped for coffee and Dean had managed some late breakfast. After that he'd started to look at the pages Sam had book-marked on his missing persons case. So far he'd found no obvious connection between the victims, other than that they were all couples of some description and they'd all been driving along the Lestridge Road at night. He couldn't claim he'd given the material his full attention, though. Often he'd read the same page, even paragraph, over and over again without taking in the sense of it, but at least the effort was keeping his mind occupied and that was the main thing.

It was late morning when they reached the outskirts of Castor's Passage. A few miles before the town they hit a road block and had to slow as they were navigated through a lane closure. Police and emergency vehicles were gathered near a sharp bend in the road and the wreck of a car was being winched out of a gully that dropped steeply to the right of it.

Some distance beyond the corner Sam parked and turned back to gaze ruminatively toward the scene they'd just witnessed. "I wanna check that out," he said. Getting out of the car he went to the trunk and took out his back pack and after a few moments of rummaging found what he was looking for and his head appeared next to the passenger door.

"You wanna come with?" he asked through the open window.

Warily, Dean got out of the car and followed Sam back to the crash site. He didn't think the authorities were likely to appreciate rubber-neckers. As they approached the corner Sam was inspecting the road and checking over the edge of the gully, then he glanced back at the wrecked car.

"Hmmph," he grunted.

"Is this it?" Dean asked quietly. "Is this the road?"

Sam nodded his confirmation.

Dean frowned and cautiously peered over the edge into the thick brush that obscured the depths of the gorge. "Pretty steep," he muttered. He looked back down the road, then at Sam. "Sharp bend, on a corner, no guard rail," he noted. "Are you sure there's a mystery here?"

"No tire marks," Sam observed. "Doesn't look like they tried to brake."

"Maybe they never saw it. All the accidents have been at night."

"Where are the bodies?"

Dean glanced back at the wreckage. The windscreen was well smashed. "Maybe they're still down there somewhere. Looks like they went through the windscreen."

"Where's the blood?"

Dean looked again at the car. That was a good question. The glass and the hood did seem remarkably clean. Movement caught his attention and he tensed as he saw a man with a badge headed their way.

"Sam, we should go back now," he murmered.

Sam shook his head. "I want to ask some questions. Just act casual. Carry on checking out the gully and leave the talking to me."

"Gentlemen, I'm going to have to ask you to move on," said the sheriff. "This is a crime scene."

Sam reached into his jacket, pulled out a wallet flipped it open and briefly showed its interior to the officer. "US Marshals, Sheriff," he announced. "Padalecki and Ackles. We're investigating the recent disappearances."

Dean stifled a gasp, shot a quick, uncomfortable grin of greeting at the officer then busied himself with checking out the gully as Sam had suggested. _Oh, yeah!_ He was checking the _hell_ out of that gully.

The sheriff narrowed his eyes at Sam. "You look pretty young for a US Marshall," he observed doubtfully.

"Yes, thank you, Sheriff," Sam replied wearily. "I've been told that before." His cool, slightly condescending tone was exactly that of a fed who was tired of having his authority questioned by small town lawmen.

Dean edged awkwardly away from the conversation. He was pretty sure there was some gully over that way he hadn't checked out yet.

"Is this the case reported last week?" Sam continued. "You're just recovering the vehicle now?"

"No, this is a fresh incident. Happened just two nights ago."

"Same circumstances? Couple driving at night? No bodies found?"

"No bodies, no blood, no fingerprints, no sign of struggle," the sheriff conceded. "It's like they just vanished."

"Have you established any connection between the victims other than that they were couples?"

"None we can find. Two of the couples were college kids but before that it was a retired couple and this latest incident was a young married couple. All different backgrounds."

"All local?"

"Mostly but not all."

"So what's your theory?"

The sheriff sighed. "Serial killer? Kidnapping ring? Right now those are our best guesses but, honestly? We don't know. We've got nothing that makes sense. If you guys can turn up anything new, I'd welcome it."

"Mind if we take a look at the vehicle?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Sam nodded his thanks to the officer then headed toward the smashed car with Dean following.

"Sam, what the hell?" he hissed, but Sam appeared absorbed in his inspection. He completed a slow circuit of the vehicle, studying it carefully, then fished in his pocket and pulled out some weird piece of tech. He pointed it toward the car and it started flashing and chirruping excitedly. Dean was intrigued in spite of himself.

"What's that?" he asked.

"EMF monitor," Sam replied.

Dean was nonplussed. "EMF?" he repeated. "As in electromagnetic fields? What would be causing that?"

"Nothing natural," Sam replied grimly.

Dean found that response just the tiniest bit disturbing. "And by 'nothing natural' you mean . . . 'something man-made'? . . . Right?"

Sam took something else out of his pocket. This time Dean recognized it as a digital recorder. What was he recording? The EMF monitor?

" _Right_ , Sam?"

Sam replaced both instruments in his pocket and called over to the sheriff. "Thanks, Sheriff. I think we've got everything here. We'll let you know our conclusions."

The sheriff waved acknowledgement and Sam beckoned Dean away with a sideways tilt of his head. Dean followed but inside him his anxiety was starting to curdle into the beginnings of a vague, unfocussed anger. Now that the hurricane in his head was slowly downgrading some of the detritus of the last twenty-four hours was starting to stick to the walls. As they neared the Impala he drew alongside Sam.

"Ackles and Padalecki?" he growled. "Where d'you come up with those jokers?"

"Yellow Pages."

"Sounds about right. I'm surprised you didn't go the whole nine and say we were Agents Mulder and Skully."

"Meaning?" Sam asked, casting Dean an apprehensive glance.

"Meaning you just impersonated a federal marshall!" he snapped. "Do you know how freakin' illegal that is? And what was all that crap about EMF? Just what kind of investigator do you think you are, exactly?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath. "The presence of an electro magnetic field is an indication of – "

"I know what it indicates, Sam! I know about freakin' salt and holy water, too. I read. I watch TV. What are you giving me here, Sam? You think this is a fucking ghost story?" He was starting to lose it a little and as his voice got louder Sam threw a nervous glance back toward the corner. "This isn't the fucking TV, Sam. That was a real crime scene back there, and those were real cops and that's a real fucking fake I.D. in your pocket! Are you trying to get us arrested?" Sam was making shushing motions. He put a hand on Dean's arm and tried to lead him back to the Impala but Dean shook him off. "I didn't follow you out here so you could feed me Scooby snacks. You told me this case was connected to Dad's disappearance. Are you trying to tell me now that Mom was killed by a _ghost_?"

Sam glanced back toward the corner and drew in another sharp breath. "Not a ghost, no," he said.

"What then? Ghouls? Demons? Vampires? Zombies?"

Sam turned his face back and fixed Dean's eyes with his. When he spoke his voice was low and steady. "Dean, just take a moment," he insisted. "Take a moment and think . . . and then just answer me one question . . ." He paused long enough to make sure he had Dean's full attention . . . then he dropped the nuke. "Does the way your mother died strike you as normal?"

Dean reeled for a moment then, in a flash, his anger erupted into white hot rage. Without a breath of a thought he grabbed the front of Sam's shirt and slammed him backwards into a tree. "Guh!" Sam gasped as the impact rocked his body.

"Nothing about this is _normal_!" Dean croaked. The very air seemed trapped in his chest and he had to force his voice through it. "My whole _life_ isn't normal. _You_ don't strike me as normal right now!"

They were almost nose to nose, breathing the same pocket of air, and Dean was glaring right into the tall young man's eyes, but Sam didn't say or do anything. He didn't try to defend himself or push Dean away, he just stood there and stared at Dean wide eyed, breathing rapidly. With a lack of any kind of response from Sam, Dean's anger began to falter and fizzle. Nothing happened. And the longer nothing continued to happen the clearer it became to Dean that this wasn't achieving anything . . . and all this intense eye contact was just starting to get . . . weird.

As quickly as it had come, the passion that had animated him evaporated into air and he just felt helpless and lost. He felt as if the post he'd been leaning against was tilting and he was toppling right along with it. This whole situation was freakin' insane and Sam was the only one who'd seemed to have some kind of handle on it all . . . but what did that say about Sam?

Dean sat heavily on the trunk of the Impala. "What am I doing here, Sam?" he groaned. "I'm hundreds of miles from home and I don't know who the fuck you are . . . and I don't even have a cell phone any more." How readily he'd grasped at the carrot Sam had dangled: a strange case in a strange town, and a hint that it might somehow lead him to his father; but now he wondered if it had just been an excuse to run away, as if he could escape the horror and all the responsibility it had left in its wake. Almost the last thing Dad had said to him was that he had no sense of direction in his life. And Dad was right. All he ever did was attach himself to the nearest charismatic trouble maker and follow them around like an excited Yorkshire terrier. He wondered what it was he was seeking in these people that he felt he lacked in himself: a mind of his own, maybe? Sam was just Jimmy Masters all over again . . . only Sam made Jimmy look like a basket of kittens.

Sam sat down beside him on the trunk and suddenly Dean was reminded acutely of the man's size and his strength. An uneasy frisson skittered down his back as he remembered how easily Sam had swept him to the floor the night they'd met, how he'd disabled the hustlers in moments when they'd attacked him . . . and Dean had just thrown him at a tree and lived to tell the tale. He was lucky Sam hadn't snapped every bone in his body.

"You're dangerous, Sam," he breathed. "You're gonna wind up getting us arrested or worse . . . and all this X-Files stuff . . ." Dean hesitated. Was it safe even suggesting this? "Are you . . . ? . . . There isn't any medication you're supposed to be taking, is there?"

Sam turned and stared at Dean. His eyebrows were raised but he didn't look angry. He even laughed softly, a deep rich laugh that Dean found peculiarly soothing.

"I'm not psychotic, Dean," Sam assured him. "And I'm not delusional . . . But you're right . . . I'm not a safe person to be with." The smile slipped from Sam's face and Dean instantly missed the dimples that had accompanied it. "And, honestly, I don't even know if I can protect you. I just . . ." He looked down and shook his head then for a few moments he just stared off into the distance, his brow wrinkled with thought and obvious worry, then he seemed to come to some kind of decision. Fishing in the pocket of his jeans he pulled out the car keys and reflectively tossed them in his hand a couple of times before holding them out in front of Dean.

"Dean, I swear to you my only thought in bringing you here was keeping you safe," he said. "But if you really want to drive back home I won't try to stop you. Just drop me in town first, would you? And, if you could do me one more favor before you leave, I'd really appreciate it."

Sam was doing the puppy dog eyes thing again and Dean could feel his defenses crumbling under the assault of his sincerity.

"What's that?" he croaked.

Sam drew in a deep breath. "Do you have GoldWave on your laptop?" he asked.


	3. Scenes 4 - 6

**SCENE 4**

**  
**The waitress put the plate down in front of Dean and gave him a beaming smile and he winked reflexively back at her. He had ordered the bacon and cheeseburger out of habit. He wasn't really hungry. Or, at least, he hadn't thought he was but as the smell of the melted cheese wafted up to him he was surprised to feel a responsive gurgle in his stomach. He gazed at the burger for a moment then took a bite. Once he tasted the bacon he discovered he really was hungry after all. Sam, it turned out, really did like salads . . . but at least he was eating a steak with it this time. All that muscle needed some protein from somewhere.

Dean continued to chew greedily as he returned his attention to the recording. As he expected, it contained the noise of the EMF monitor, birdsong and crickets . . . and his own voice saying "right, Sam?" rather testily.

"There! Did you hear that?" Sam demanded.

It was hard to hear anything above the noise of cutlery and the barista machine but Dean turned up the volume and noticed a kind of stuttering quality to the recording. He frowned. "Yeah, you're right. There's something on here, some kind of distortion."

"That's what I need you to isolate. Can you slow it down and take out the hiss?"

Dean gave Sam a withering look. "I'm majoring in sound engineering, dude," he reminded him.

After a couple of passes the sound was clearer and seeming less like random noise. When he slowed it down again it started to take on the quality of a human voice on fast forward. He glanced at Sam who was watching him expectantly. Dean started to get goose bumps. He slowed the recording down once more and played the result.

From the laptop's speaker a man's voice clearly announced: "There's only one way this can end."

Dean experienced a phenomenon he'd only ever heard about before: he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "Ok . . . that's really . . . creepy," he conceded.

Sam leaned forward. "It's called EVP: Electronic Voice Phenomenon," he explained. "The same energies that create the electromagnetic fields can affect recording equipment - audio and video."

Dean played the recording again. "There's only one way this can end," the voice insisted. Dean closed the laptop. He spent a few moments in thought, just running a thumbnail over one eyebrow. Sam was watching him with an intense and eager expression on his face.

"You've come across this before?" Dean asked him.

Sam nodded.

"Well, I haven't," Dean acknowledged, "But I've read about it." He passed a hand across his eyes. "Listen, Sam, I'm open-minded. I can believe there might be a natural phenomenon that we refer to as ghosts. Maybe there's something about extreme emotions that can be imprinted on the environment, like a photograph or a movie, and maybe sensitive people – and recording equipment – can pick it up. Maybe it's electromagnetic like you say."

Sam nodded. "But what you're describing is really just something that's known as a death echo. It's just a replay of the moment of death over and over again, usually in the place where it occurred. It's about as dangerous as a scary movie."

"And you don't think that's what this is, then?"

"No, this is an angry spirit."

"A spirit?" Dean repeated dubiously.

"A residual essence of an actual victim of violence that hasn't moved on. It's still bound to the place where it happened, becoming more confused and violent and angry until it starts taking its frustration out on the living, usually trying to recreate the original violent event in some way."

Dean shook his head. "See, this is where you lose me, Sam," he said. "'Cause I don't believe in spirits or souls, or an afterlife, or other planes or any of that dualism crap. This is it. This is all there is." He grabbed Sam's hand. "Flesh, and bone and blood."

Sam's eyes widened in shock and he hastily pulled his hand away, clearly not comfortable with the touchy-feely stuff.

"People don't go anywhere when they die, Sam," Dean continued. "They just stop, like a car stops when you kill the engine. When you're dead, you're d – " Suddenly Dean heard what he was saying . . . And the body blows kept coming. Even out of his own mouth. For a while there he'd been caught up in all this supernatural talk and he'd forgotten to remember not to think about the thing he was trying not to think about. But now the image played before his eyes once more . . . the woman on the ceiling . . . the image of his mother's death . . . his mother's _violent_ death . . . _no_. . .

. . . _No._

"So, what do you think is killing these people, then, Dean?" Sam persisted.

Dean dragged his attention, kicking and screaming, back to the conversation. "You're sure they're dead, then?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Dean studied him. He really did sound like this stuff was all just a job to him.

"Sam, have you ever actually seen a ghost - a spirit, I mean."

"A few." . . . _So matter-of-fact_ . . .

Dean opened the laptop once more and stared at the screen. He didn't play the recording again but he could still hear the voice: _There's only one way this can end._

"Is this for real, Sam?" he asked. "Seriously? This is what you do? You're . . . a paranormal investigator or something?"

Sam sat nodding his head for a moment or two, but it didn't exactly seem like a confirmation, and when he finally spoke it was to qualify Dean's suggestion.

"I wouldn't characterize myself as an investigator exactly."

"Then what?"

Sam fixed Dean with his intense gaze. "I'm a hunter," he said. "I don't investigate paranormal phenomena, I hunt supernatural creatures . . . things that are hurting and killing people, and I put a stop to it."

"How?"

"There are methods: rituals, spells, objects and substances that ward off evil. It depends on what you're dealing with."

"You're talking about witchcraft!"

"Dean, I'm talking about an arsenal - supernatural weapons, if you like."

"Like the salt and the holy water?"

"That's right."

_Protection against monsters . . ._

"Dean, have you never experienced anything out of the ordinary yourself before now?"

"What? No."

"No odd dreams? Premonitions?"

"No."

"Objects mysteriously moving around you?"

"No."

"You've never seen anything weird, nothing that might have been a glimpse of an apparition or visitation of any kind?"

"N – " Dean hesitated. "No."

Sam frowned and gave him a searching look. "Are you _sure_?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Dean responded irritably. "Why?"

Sam's lips shrugged on his behalf. "Most people have had brushes with the supernatural, they just don't recognize it. They pass it off as imagination or try to rationalize it with some natural explanation."

A few moments passed interrupted by nothing except the clink of crockery and the sound of the cash register. Sam was still studying Dean closely.

"Nothing, Dean?" he pressed.

Dean shifted the focus and went on the offensive. "Sam, does this case actually have anything to do with Dad's disappearance?"

Sam hesitated then sat back in his seat. "No," he admitted, bluntly.

"Then what are we doing here?" Dean demanded.

"It was a case. Something real and practical I could show you. If I'd said 'supernatural' to you this morning, would you have listened?"

Dean didn't reply but gazed steadily at Sam. His lack of response was an answer in itself.

"Now you're listening."

"I've heard a voice on a recording. Maybe there's a natural explanation for it, maybe there isn't." Dean growled stubbornly. "Doesn't mean I've bought your bill of goods yet."

Sam was silent for a moment and Dean tensed. They both knew it wasn't just about the EVP, and Dean was afraid Sam was going to point that out . . . again. But he didn't say it. He just said "help me work this case then. Let me show you what I do. Give me a chance to convince you."

The waitress passed their table and refilled their coffees. Dean gave her the briefest acknowledgement and when she'd gone he leaned forward and arrested Sam with his own fixed gaze.

"Sam, look me straight in the face and tell me the truth," he demanded. "Can you help me find Dad?"

Sam's hazel-blue eyes stared back at him, unwavering. "Dean, I can't give you any cast iron promises. Like I said, I have no concrete leads at the moment. But I will help you. Yes."

Dean felt something between reassurance and frustration. In spite of Sam's promise of help, they still seemed to be standing still.

"Sam, I can't just sit here," he groaned. "I have to do _something_."

"Then do what you can do," Sam replied earnestly. "Help me solve this case. Dean, there are people dying here, and we can help. We can end it."

Dean thumbed at his eyebrow again then took a deep breath. "Ok, well, what's the next step, then?"

Sam showed obvious relief before becoming business-like. He pulled out his wallet and held out a wad of notes to Dean. "First off, you'd better get yourself a new cell-phone," he said.

Dean surveyed the cash ambivalently. Everything about Sam seemed to come with a double side of reassurance and anxiety.

"Do I even want to know where you're getting all this money all of a sudden?" he asked.

Sam hesitated then screwed up his nose and shook his head.

Dean wiped his hand round the back of his neck and sighed. "We're not in Kansas any more, are we?" he observed.

Sam laughed hollowly. "Trust me, it's no safer there."

 

**SCENE 5**

   
The guy who sold him the phone was a chatty type. He was curious why Dean was visiting the town so Dean gave him the road trip story and the guy was soon suggesting places nearby that he should visit. It seemed natural to bring up the subject of the lane closure and the "accident" as Dean referred to it, but the word elicited a snort of derision from the man.

 "Not an accident?" Dean asked.

 "It's always couples that have 'accidents' on that road," the man replied. "And they never find the bodies. So you tell me."

 "Still, there's gotta be a rational explanation, hasn't there?" Dean suggested.

 "That's what people keep saying but, if you ask me, what's irrational is to keep insisting there must be a natural explanation when it's obvious something's not right. That road's had a reputation for years."

 "How so?"

 The man gave Dean a hard look, like he was gauging how he was going to react. Dean tried to assume an open-minded expression . . . whatever an open-minded expression would look like. Presumably he succeeded, for the man continued.

"That road changes at night. During the day it twists and turns like any mountain pass, but at night – " He paused, and Dean thought he seemed to shudder. "It changes. It's just one long, straight road leading nowhere. How many people have to die to prove there's a "rational" explanation for it?"

 It seemed to Dean there was a flaw in this little urban legend. "Well, it can't change every night, surely, or people would be disappearing all the time."

 "Do you wanna be the one who's driving along there when it does change? Me, I just don't go up there at night. Not any more."

 Dean caught some significance in those last words and pressed a little further. "Have you had some kind of . . . personal experience up there?" he asked.

 The man gazed coolly at Dean for a few beats then nodded. "I was on that road one night when it changed. I looked ahead and it was straight as far as I could see, and it was like I could see it going on forever. And I knew, as sure as I've ever known anything, that if I went any further I'd never come back. So I just turned around, and I've never driven up there at night since."

 Either the man was on the level or he was a damn good story teller. He had Dean's flesh creeping. There was one more question that had to be asked, though. "Were you with anyone at the time?"

 The man hesitated and his face acquired a slightly pink hue when he replied, "Nah, I was by myself that time."

 Dean suppressed a smile. _Well, you weren't with anyone you were supposed to be with, that's for sure._

 As Dean left the shop he felt a little chuffed with himself. "Well, look at me _investigating,_ " he muttered, with a grin, and gave a little self-congratulatory toss of the head. "How's that, _Agent Padalecki_?"

 He turned his attention to his new cell-phone. His first call was to Stan. He was still clinging to the hope that Dad had called him, but he hadn't. Stan wanted to know where he was and he told him California, without being specific, and that he and Sam were fine.

 "And how come you and Sam are joined at the elbow all of a sudden?" Stan wanted to know. "The way he was organizing things after the accident you'd have thought he was your brother or something. You didn't even know him before all this happened, did you?"

 Dean's stomach started to churn. This was the kind of conversation he'd been hoping to avoid. He cleared his throat. "I think he's just . . you know, trying to help . ."

 "Well, I could have done with his help here right now. This was supposed to be his job, after all. Oh, and the police are wondering why you two left town in such a hurry, by the way."

 Dean tried to smooth out his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. He felt like he was making a down payment on an early stomach ulcer. "What are they saying?"

 Stan grunted. "I don't know that they're _saying_ anything, exactly. They're just _wondering_. Out loud, if you know what I mean."

 "Well . . . I'm just . . . taking time out to deal, Stan . . ."

 Maybe the stress was starting to show in Dean's voice because Stan paused briefly. "Yeah. Ok, Dean. I get that . . ."

 Dean wasn't sure he did.

 "But why with Sam? What about that girlfriend of yours? Couldn't you have gone away somewhere with her?"

  _Penny_. Dean felt a vague pang, a mixture of longing and guilt. "She's got exams. Listen, Stan, I've got to go," Dean was in a hurry to end this fruitless conversation. "If you do hear from Dad, could you just give him this number and get him to call me?"

 "Yeah, of course, but – "

 "Gotta go, Stan. Bye."

 Dean stared at the useless piece of tech in his hand. He was still cut off from everything that mattered and his stomach ached with the things he wanted and couldn't have. He wished, he _so_ wished Dad would call and tell him that somehow it had all been a big mistake and everything was really fine. Mom was at home worrying about where Dean had gone, and whether he'd be home for dinner. She was baking pie –

 A lump rose to Dean's throat. He shook his head and growled it back down into his gut. He should call Penny. He _should_ call Penny. She was probably out of her mind with worry. He felt guilty not calling her, and it wasn't that he didn't want to talk to her; he just didn't want to argue with her. What he really wanted was to just curl up on a bed with her somewhere and just hold her. He could really use a hug right now. And, whatever else Sam might be, Dean was pretty sure he wasn't a hugger.

When he returned to the café he was surprised – almost shocked, even - to find Sam chatting up a couple of pretty young girls. Well, what do you know? Maybe the guy had a dick after all. As he walked up Sam was fingering a pendant one of the girls was wearing.

 "Actually, it means just the opposite," he was saying. "A pentagram is protection against evil, really powerful. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing."

 "Sam here was a consultant for _Unsolved Mysteries_ ," Dean added helpfully. "Did he mention that?"

 From the glare Sam gave him it appeared he didn't appreciate Dean's help. He concluded his conversation with the young women rather abruptly and all but frog-marched Dean out of the café.

 "Why the hurry?" Dean asked. "I think you were making some headway, there. So do you find this supernatural gig works with the ladies?"

 "I was gathering _intel,_ Dean!"

 " _Oh_. That."

 "I may have found a connection between a couple of the victims."

 "Is that a fact?" Dean was less enthusiastic about the news than he should have been. It was going to scoop his story.

 "Apparently both the college guys were cheating on their girlfriends."

 "More than one randy college kid?" Dean responded with mock surprise. "I'll alert the media."

 "Infidelity is a motive for violence," Sam pointed out.

 Dean shrugged a grudging acknowledgement.

 "It's something to pursue, anyway. The sister of one of the latest victims lives in town. I'd like to have a word with her, see if it throws up anything."

 Sam began striding purposefully up the road and Dean fell in beside him. "Actually, I picked up some intel myself in the shop." He tried to make the comment casually, and not at all like a dog that wanted to be patted for fetching a stick. Sam actually stopped walking and turned to Dean with unabashed interest, so Dean reported the gist of the conversation and waited for his biscuit.

Sam stood deep in thought, absorbing the information. "That's interesting. We should check that out. Good. Good, Dean."

 The grin that rose to Dean's face faltered half way as he wondered what Sam meant when he said they should check it out.

 "I want to interview the sister first, though."

  _Uh-oh_. "Who are we going to pretend to be this time? The feds again?"

 Sam shrugged.

  _Damn._ Dean sighed. "Well, at least come up with better names than Ackles and Padalecki this time. I mean, what? Are you Polish now?"

 "You think you can do better?" Sam challenged.

 Dean grinned. "Damn straight!"

 

**SCENE 6**

 

"Alyson Holder?"

The young woman glanced from Sam to Dean. "Yes?" she responded guardedly.

Sam's face felt tight. His jaw muscles worked uncomfortably as if he were chewing on gristle. He cast a sideways glimpse at Dean who returned an encouraging hitch of his eyebrows.

Sam cleared his throat. "We're federal officers, ma'am. I’m Agent Medley, this is my colleague, Agent Hatfield." He winced and quickly flashed his I.D, and was aware that Dean had matched his action. Looking at Dean again, he found him beaming self-importantly and gave him a reproving glare. "We'd like to talk to you about your sister's disappearance."

The woman's face had fallen into a pained and weary expression. Sam now noticed that she looked pale and around her eyes he saw a faint red puffiness of recently shed tears. This was going to be difficult.

"Do I need to go through it all again? I've already told the police everything I know."

"We just need to check our facts, ma'am. We'll only take a little of your time."

She sighed, nodded and ushered them through the door. Sam glanced back at Dean and saw that his expression had lost all trace of humor. Clearly the situation had just become real for him. Sam had been surprised how quickly Dean had adjusted to their law-breaking activities; perhaps there was even a part of it that appealed to his rebel side. But this was different. This was merely painful and intrusive and Dean could identify only too well with the grieving woman. As she led them to her living room his eyes were cast down to the floor. He was patently miserable and uncomfortable with his part in this deception and it occurred to Sam that it had been a mistake to include Dean in this particular interview. As Sam went through the usual introductory questions he picked absently at a thread on the arm of his chair, trying to distance himself from the charade.

"And did you notice anything unusual in your sister's behaviour in the period before the accident?" Sam was asking.

She shook her head, "no, nothing." She answered like an automaton. These were the questions she'd already covered with the local police.

"How would you characterize her relationship with her husband?" Sam continued.

She hesitated. "I'm sorry . . . what do you mean?"

Sam sensed she was stalling; the question made her uncomfortable.

"Would you say they had a happy marriage?"

"Well, I . . . I would say probably . . . average . . ." Her voice and lips were trembling. _Crap_. Sam hated it when they got emotional. He was never sure how to handle it. He was ill-equipped to deal with other people's feelings at the best of times - hunters didn't have feelings - but if this woman broke down in front of Dean there was no telling what it would do to him. What had Sam been _thinking_ subjecting him to this? He glanced anxiously sideways to see if Dean had noticed her reaction. He had. His head was still angled down but he was watching her through lowered eyelids. Sam tensed. _Crap!_

"They had their problems, I guess." the woman continued. "Like most people." Her voice crackled and tears began to coarse down her face. He looked at Dean and his anxiety mounted as he saw the green orbs welling sympathetically. _Christ!_ Dean was going to lose it!

As Sam tried to formulate a sentence that would get them out of the house quickly, Dean fumbled in his pocket pulled out a handkerchief and proffered it to the crying woman. She accepted it gratefully and began mopping at her eyes. As her free hand returned to her lap Dean leaned forward and reached toward it. He hesitated momentarily then took her hand in his own. Sam's eyes widened. His professional instincts were prompting him to intervene – federal officers did _not_ hold the hands of witnesses! – But he was immobilized by doubt, afraid of doing something that would make matters worse. Then, without any help from him, matters _did_ get worse. Dean's compassion had just encouraged the woman. She looked up at him, saw the empathy in his eyes and promptly broke down in a fit of sobbing. In a flash Dean was next to her on the sofa. He reached out to her and she leaned into his chest and allowed him to fold his arms around her, and Sam stared at the pair of them in helpless bewilderment as the whole situation spiraled out of his control. Then, as he'd feared, Dean started as well. Not full blown sobbing, not yet, but tears were running down his face. Sam made a forward movement meaning to extricate Dean from the situation, but something restrained him. As he watched, Dean's tears continued to flow, but his emotion wasn't escalating. He wasn't losing it. He was holding it together for the sake of the wretched woman in his arms. _He had it under control_! Sam stared at him in wonderment. After everything Dean had been through Sam had been convinced that the woman's outburst would trigger a total melt down, but he was beginning to realize that Dean had reserves of strength Sam wouldn't previously have credited him with.

Dean lifted an arm and tried to dry his face with the sleeve of his jacket. The action finally prompted a practical response from Sam and he reached in his pocket and handed Dean his own handkerchief. Dean took it, pressed it to his eyes and gave Sam the OK sign behind the woman's back. She seemed to become aware of the exchange and made an effort to pull herself together. She drew away from Dean, apologized, and offered him back his handkerchief but he shook his head.

"It's ok . . . Alyson, isn't it?" Dean reassured her.

She nodded. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "It's just that . . ." she gulped and blew her nose, "Michelle wasn't happy. She'd been very _un_ happy." She sniffed. "She and Nick had been arguing . . . he had an affair. With his _secretary_ , if you please!"

Dean snorted. "Men are never very original, are they?" His comment actually raised a ghost of a smile from her.

"It must have made your sister very angry," Sam suggested.

"I suppose," Alyson agreed half heartedly.

"I'll bet!" Dean asserted. "Hell, I know if I found out my girlfriend was seeing another guy I'd want to kill the douchebag!"

 _Hell's teeth!_ He was actually still doing his job!

"I think it crossed her mind," she acknowledged. Then she seemed to realize she'd been drawn into saying more than she meant to. "But wait . . . you don't think Michelle had anything to do with the accident? She _wouldn't_ . . . and it was Nick that was driving! – "

"No!" Dean assured her quickly. "No, of course not. Don't mind me. Always putting my mouth in gear before I've got my brain engaged."

She smiled at him quizzically. "You're not much how I'd imagine a federal agent," she observed.

"Yeah," he grinned and shot a quick glance at Sam. "I've been told that before." He stood up. "Well, I think we've got everything we need here, haven't we, Agent Medley?" He gave Sam a hard look; his voice said question, his eyes said statement.

"Yes," Sam agreed. "Thank you very much for giving us your time, Ms Holder. We're very sorry for your loss."

Out in the open air Dean was wiping away the residue of his emotional interlude with Sam's handkerchief. "Jesus!" he growled. "Argghhh! Rrrgghhh!" He blew his nose noisily.

Sam wanted to say something about how well he thought Dean was doing under the circumstances, but he couldn't think how to express it. ' _Dean, you're not the pampered, soft-bellied college wimp I took you for,'_ didn't seem to hit the right note. Granted Dean was holding himself together with a combination of denial, belligerence and bloody-mindedness, but he was doing it. Sam was aware that sooner or later Dean would have to confront the issues he was currently avoiding, and Sam was dreading it – Dean was an emotional powder-keg, there was no predicting his reactions – but Sam would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. If they could just get through this case first, it would help.

Dean saw Sam watching him and totally misinterpreted his thoughts. "Stop looking at me like that," he snapped. Then he added "remind me again why it was necessary to intrude on that woman's pain?"

Sam hesitated. "Because we're trying to save lives?" he offered.

"Oh. Right. That." Dean stared down at the sodden handkerchief. "Well, what's next, then?" He demanded. "And don't tell me you want to interview another grieving relative or, I swear to God, I will break your nose!"

"No, I was going to suggest we visit the library next."

Dean nodded approvingly. "Well, ok, then." He gestured the soggy handkerchief toward Sam.

"Do you – ?"

"No!"

"Ok."

Dean pocketed the handkerchief, turned and stomped off down the road. Sam hastened to catch up and fell in beside him.

 


	4. Scenes 7 & 8

**SCENE 7**

 

Sam frowned as he sat at the library's IT hub staring, frustrated, at the computer screen. So far the search through old records and back issues of local newspapers had been unrewarding. He had trawled back as far as fifty years and found details of murders, domestics, random acts of violence, but nothing that seemed to link to the Lestridge Road. He glanced at Dean who was sitting at the next booth, just around the corner, and wondered if his new hunting partner was having any better luck than he was. Dean's face was filled with an expression of rapt concentration and Sam watched his eyelashes flutter as he surfed down the page, the jade irises scanning from left to right. _God. You could drown in those eyes._

In his mind, Sam found himself back on the Lestridge Road, pinned against a tree, his heart hammering against his rib cage as he stared directly into those iridescent orbs that were dark and glittering with anger. And once again he could feel the heat radiating from Dean's body, feel the warmth of his breath on his face. And he could have sworn, as they stood so indecently close together, he had seen Dean's expression change and soften and his eyes grow large and round as his pupils slowly dilated . . .

Sam shook his head impatiently and returned his attention to his own screen, but it wasn't long before his gaze was sliding around the corner once more to where Dean's hand was curled around the mouse. As he watched one neatly manicured finger lightly brushing around the curve of the scroll wheel Sam's throat constricted in a long, slow swallow.

Dean's hand lifted and Sam followed it to his face where it scratched distractedly at an itch on his nose then pushed a stray lock of hair business-like behind one ear. At least one of them was concentrating on the job, Sam admonished himself, and was just determining to return his attention to the matter in hand when Dean glanced sideways, caught Sam looking at him and tossed him exactly the same wink he had given the waitress in the café.

 _Jerk!_ Sam thought irritably as his insides flipped like a love-sick schoolgirl's. Was Dean incapable of interacting with anyone without flirting with them? Did he even realize he was doing it? Sam's irritation turned to self-directed anger. This pre-occupation was getting out of hand, and it made absolutely – no – sense! He tried to reason with himself and fixed his gaze firmly in front of him as he began cataloging the illogic of this ridiculous infatuation:

1/ As undeniably good-looking as Dean was, he really wasn't _that_ exceptional.

_Oh, who are you trying to kid here? Of course he's fucking exceptional. Just look at him. LOOK AT HIM!_

Sam's gaze crept surreptitiously back to Dean's face. His lips were just barely parted and pursed in concentration, and Sam had an urge to reach out and touch them, discover if they were as soft and warm as they looked –

As if he'd been slapped round the head, Sam snapped his focus frontward once more.

2/ Dean had a girlfriend.

_Really? Well, I may be wrong, but I don't think he's called her since he got the new phone . . ._

3/ He was grieving. And despite his tendency to lace almost every conversation with innuendo, which Sam was pretty sure was just an ingrained habit with him, it was highly unlikely that Dean had any real interest in sex at this time . . .

_Do you suppose he'd be thinking about his dead mother while you're fucking him into the mattress?_

What the fuck? Sam straightened stiffly in his seat. He stared guiltily at Dean then glanced around the library as if someone might have heard the voice of the monster in his head.

4/ It was fucking unprofessional.

There was no room for sentiment in hunting, no place for attachment, and no excuse for allowing himself to be dominated by a downstairs-brained, testosterone fueled obsession with the guy whose safety was his responsibility. He'd already dropped the shoe once while he'd been pointlessly speculating about the exact degree of Dean's sexual orientation, and if he didn't throw an ice-bucket over it he was going to wind up getting them both killed. Christ, Dean had just lost his mother and he was holding it together yet here Sam was losing it over a pretty-face with a come-to-bed manner –

"How're you doing?"

"Guh!"

Dean looked up from his own research with raised eyebrows. "What's the matter with you, Jumpy?"

"You startled me," Sam mumbled, forcing his attention back to the computer screen.

"Well, next time I'll say something before I say something to warn you I'm going to say something."

Sam turned a weary, withering expression toward Dean _you irritating son-of-a-bitch I wanna kiss you so hard NO!_

Sam gave the keyboard a testy shove. "I got nothing," he grumbled.

Dean continued to study his own screen with a slight frown of concentration on his face. "I've maybe got something. It's a bit outside the box, but there's a murder and a disappearance, and it fits the time frame."

"OK, not changing channels yet." Sam trundled his chair round to Dean's side of the desk and took a look at his screen. It showed a news item with a photograph of a young couple.

"January '78 Daniel Whitman is arrested for murdering his brother's fiancé, Carmine Hobbes," Dean began to summarize. "His brother, Saul Whitman, posts bail and then the pair of them skip town and are never seen again."

The skin tightened over Sam's forehead. "Wait a minute. The brother whose fiancé was killed posted bail?"

"Freaky enough for you?" Dean asked.

The skin on Sam's forehead settled into thoughtful grooves. "Not seeing the infidelity here."

Dean shrugged. "I figured maybe Carmine was doing the double-mint dance with both brothers."

Sam responded to Dean's expression with a grimace of disgust before posing another question: "But if it's the two brothers who disappeared, why is the spirit targeting couples?"

"Who am I? John Edward?" Dean responded, a little defensively. "I'm just reporting the facts here."

Sam shook his head. "I dunno. It's something, but it's not a perfect match. Maybe the brothers just high-tailed it to Mexico."

"And maybe they're still at the bottom of that gully," Dean growled, stubbornly clinging to his find.

Sam sat back in his chair and gazed out of the library windows. The winter evenings were drawing in now and the darkness was gathering outside.

"I think we're going to have to go up there," he said.

Dean followed Sam's gaze and glanced back through the darkened glass, then returned his attention to Sam's face.

"What, now, you mean? You want to take a drive up the road that changes _at night_?"

"It would be helpful if we could witness the phenomenon first hand."

"You want to drive up the road where the couples have been disappearing _at night_ ," Dean reiterated.

"I've got protection," Sam assured him.

Dean's eyebrows shot into his hairline then he started laughing.

_Oh, for fuck's sake!_

"Well, it's good to know you practice safe hunting, Sam." Dean continued to chuckle. "But, just so the ghost doesn't get confused, I want to make it clear that this is not a date. We're just going as friends, right?"

Sam's lips pruned with irritation. "That isn't funny, Dean."

Dean grinned irrepressibly. "It's a little bit funny."

And Dean was still chuckling as they made for the exit. "You've got protection," he repeated. "Ah, Sammy, you're a gift from God, you really are!"

Sam resisted the urge to slap him upside the head.

**  
SCENE 8**

 

Dean's eyes widened as Sam opened the trunk of the Impala, removed their bags etc. and lifted the bottom to reveal the weapons cache methodically arranged beneath.

"What have you done to her?" he gasped. "You've turned her into some kind of mobile gun runner!" His gaze ran over the assortment of guns, blades, stakes and other monster-specific equipment gathering bewilderment as it went.

Sam shot him a worried glance. He could appreciate this collection would be disturbing to a civilian seeing it for the first time. "We need this stuff, Dean," he said quietly.

Dean reached into the trunk, picked up the Colt 1911 semi and held it in both hands. That had come from John's store. It would be familiar to him, perhaps.

As Sam picked out the Taurus and slipped it into the back of his jeans Dean was still gazing at the Colt.

"Do you know how to use it?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. "Can't claim to have had a lot of practice," he acknowledged in a low, gravelly voice "but, yeah, I know how it works."

"Well, quick refresher . . ." Sam lifted the gun from Dean's hands, took out some ammunition and loaded the magazine then he checked the safety before handing it back to Dean. "Let me see you do it," he said.  
  
Dean unloaded and reloaded the magazine and repeated Sam's checks. He wasn't as smooth as Sam but he knew what he was doing. Sam nodded and returned to sorting through the stash. Dean glanced at the Taurus wedged under Sam's belt, checked the safety on the Colt again and lifted up his jacket. He checked the safety one more time before hesitantly slipping the weapon down the back of his own jeans.

"Are you planning to shoot the ghost?" he asked.

Sam pulled out two short iron spokes and handed one to Dean. "No, this is the weapon of choice for spirits: iron. It disrupts the electromagnetic field."

"And that kills the spirit . . . or . . . whatever?"

"No. It just buys time while the spirit gathers its energies. There are more permanent ways of getting rid of an angry spirit. The simplest and most effective is to salt and burn the bones . . . assuming you can find them, of course."

Dean's expression was incredulous but Sam persisted anyway. "That's for short range," he said, indicating the spoke in Dean's hand. "If we _should_ get attacked by an apparition tonight, you just thrust that straight into the middle of it."

Dean stared dubiously at the spoke. "Seriously? You _stab_ a ghost?" He mimed stabbing an invisible apparition.

"Spirit, Dean," Sam corrected. "And, yes. Of course, you hope it doesn't get that close," he added, drawing out a yard long fire iron and holding it up.

Dean glanced from his own spoke to Sam's fire iron and he assumed a mortified expression. "I feel so inadequate," he complained.

Sam rolled his eyes and handed Dean the car keys. "You drive, I'll keep watch," he said as he repacked the trunk. They moved round to the front of the Impala and Sam deposited the fire iron on top of the dash keeping the shorter spoke in his hand. As Dean dropped into the driver's seat he was humming something that Sam felt he should have recognized.

"Baa-da baa-da baa-da ba-da-da. Baa-da baa-da ba-daaaaa . . ." he sang as he dropped the spoke Sam had given him into his lap and slid the keys into the ignition. He turned a grin toward Sam and tossed him a quick hitch of the eyebrows. "I ain't afraid of no ghost!" he announced and gunned the engine. Then, as he took off up the road, he 'choof-chooffed' the rhythm and jigged along to it in his seat as he drove.

. . . . .

As aggravating as Dean's not entirely tuneful singing was, Sam was sorry when it eventually faltered and faded into silence. As they headed out of town and up the mountain pass, it struck him that Dean was gripping the wheel a little too tightly.

He wasn't sure exactly how long they'd been driving but he thought they must be approaching the outer limits of Castor's Passage and it began to disturb him that they couldn't see the bend in the road yet. He thought they must be getting close to it but the road ahead was straight as far as he could see . . . in fact it seemed to go on _fuck_ . . .

"Dean, I think you should slow d – " Sam felt the sudden drop in temperature and saw the icy fog of his breath and gripped the iron in his hand, ready for action. "Dean, stop, pull over!" he warned.

But Dean wasn't stopping. He wasn't slowing down. In fact the car seemed to be picking up speed.

"We've been on this road forever, and it was always leading us here," he said. "Whatever we did, whatever we tried to do, it was always going to come to this. This thing between us, these feelings . . . they're cursed, damned. They've made monsters of us both. There's only one way this can end."

Sam felt the chill of shock and horror gripping his limbs. It was in Dean! _Christ! It was inside Dean!_

He tried to grab the wheel and steer them off the road but Dean's arms were locked in position with preternatural strength and the wheel wouldn't budge. Sam didn't know how close they were to the corner, but he knew there was no time to be squeamish. He grabbed the iron spike and stabbed it into Dean's leg.

At the moment Dean yelled in pain the corner came into view dead ahead of them and Sam spun the wheel as fast as he could. The tires screeched on the asphalt with the agonized squeal of a stuck pig and Sam felt the back of the car sliding to the left, then it tipped off the level with a jolt as one wheel left the road. Jumping over to the driver's side Sam practically sat on Dean's lap and floored the gas pedal, sending the car careening over the road and into the woods on the far side. Then he was driving to avoid trees, narrowly missing one then another before hitting a bank of bushes. Twigs, leaves and branches slapped noisily across the windscreen and hood as the car juddered its way through the foliage before Sam managed to hit the brakes and kill the engine and, bracing himself against the steering wheel, he threw back his arm and held Dean against the back of the seat to stop them both from hitting the windscreen as the car finally jerked to a halt.

In the aftermath Sam hauled himself off Dean and back onto his own side and sat panting for breath for a moment before he turned and looked at Dean. "Are you all right?" he gasped.

It was dark in the woods but Sam could still see the glitter of Dean's wildly staring eyes. Aside of the combined panting there was no immediate response, but then Dean opened the door of the Impala and practically fell out of the car. For a moment Sam leaned forward and cradled his head in his arms. " _Fuck!_ " he gasped before opening his own door and dashing round to Dean's side of the car. He found Dean leaning over the hood.

"Dean, are you ok?"

" _No, I am not ok_! You just freakin' stabbed me!" Dean shouted. "You stabbed me in the leg with a freakin' metal spike!"

Sam was a little wrong-footed. Dean had just been possessed by an angry spirit and they'd narrowly avoided winding up in the bottom of a ravine. The leg injury seemed to him a minor issue. "It was an iron spike," he pointed out.

"What freakin' difference does it make what it was freakin' made of?" Dean yelled.

"Well . . . because of the electromagnetic field," Sam reminded him. "The iron grounds the charge and disperses the EMF."

Dean stared at Sam for a moment then braced himself against the hood, shifted his weight onto his injured leg for a moment and used his good one to stamp down on Sam's foot.

"Right, well, fucking ground that!" he snarled.

"JEEEEESUSSS!" Sam yelped as the pain ballooned in his toes and popped behind his eyes in a shower of little white dots. It took every ounce of his restraint to prevent himself from acting on his basic urge to punch Dean's lights out. Sam twisted around until he, too, was leaning on the hood of the Impala and he pawed the air with his foot like an injured horse.

Dean pushed himself upright and limped round to the front of the car. "I'll tell you another thing, if you screwed up my car, I'll kill you!"

Sam turned his head to stare at Dean while he continued to gasp and wince. He couldn't believe the guy. He'd just experienced the most brutal of confrontations with the supernatural and he was worried about _his car_? Shaking his head, Sam supported himself against the car as he hopped to the trunk and fetched a towel from his back-pack.

"We need to get out of here," he told Dean as he handed him the towel. "Get in the car and press this against your leg. I'll drive."

Sam hopped to the front while Dean limped round to the passenger's side. The spike that had been resting on Dean's lap had fallen onto the grass when he'd left the car and as Sam slid behind the wheel he picked it up and handed it to Dean. "If anything weird happens to me on the way back and you have to use it, don't hesitate, just stab me with it," Sam told him.

Dean twisted the spoke in his hand and tightened his grip around it, holding it ready in the stabbing position. "Right. No problem," he growled.

Dean's readiness made Sam a little uneasy. " _Only_ if you have to," he clarified.

"Gotcha," Dean growled again, but his arm didn't relax.

Sam flexed his throbbing foot and rested it against the pedal. He glanced at Dean and his leg gave a nervous twitch before he started the car and reversed it out of the bushes. They'd put some distance behind them and the lights of the town were in view again before either of them began to relax.

Dean lifted the towel off his leg and brandished it at Sam. "Look at that!" he complained. "I'm bleeding to death!"

One look at the stain was enough to assure Sam he was doing no such thing, but it had occurred to him now that maybe Dean preferred to focus on the physical injury rather than deal with the mental violation. After a few more minutes of silence, however, Dean spoke again.

"Did you _know_ that was going to happen?" he asked in a low, quiet voice that Sam didn't mistake for calmness.

"Of course not," Sam assured him. "I was ready for the possibility of an apparition but not spirit possession. It's very rare."

"If it's so fucking rare, then why did it happen to me?" Dean snarled. "Why am I the monster magnet all of a sudden? I'm starting to feel picked on here!" There was an edge in Dean's voice that worried Sam. Was it a trace of hysteria?

"It must have identified with you for some reason . . . Can you remember what you were – what it was feeling?"

Dean didn't answer straight away. After a few moments he replied in a gravelly voice "Grief, hurt, guilt, pain, anger, despair . . . a whole shit-load of nasty crap."

Sam said nothing. He didn't feel it was necessary to labor the parallels. He shifted his foot on the gas pedal trying to find a more comfortable position. His toes were still throbbing painfully.

After a few moments Dean cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about the foot thing," he said.

Sam glanced at him with some measure of relief. He didn't care about the apology except for the fact that it indicated Dean was regaining some composure. "It's ok," he assured him.

"No, it was out of order," Dean insisted. "I do appreciate that you did what you had to back there to save our lives."

Sam shrugged.

There was another spell of silence then Dean asked. "So is this it? Is this a normal day at the office for you?"

"Not one of my best days but, yeah, I guess so."

Dean nodded mechanically as if he was absorbing that, then he said "You do realize what you do is freakin' insane, don't you?"

Sam laughed hollowly. "I'm aware."

"Ok, so long as you know." A beat, and then Dean continued. "Well, there's one good thing that's come out of this, anyway."

"What's that?"

"You owe me pie."

Sam frowned. "I do? How come?"

"I was right about the brothers."

Sam glanced at Dean, eyebrows raised. "You're sure?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure."

"Which one?"

"Couldn't tell . . . I seemed to know what both of them were . . ." Dean hesitated then cleared his throat. "And I know why they're attacking couples, too."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat again. "The two of them: they were a thing."

Sam frowned. "Wh . . . ?"

"They _loved_ each other."

"Oh." Sam allowed that information to settle in his mind for a few moments. "Oh."

"And that also explains the infidelity thing," Dean continued. "'Cause Daniel wasn't too happy when the love of his life tried to go legit and get himself a fiancé. Cue bloody climax and Thelma and Louise finale."

Sam still couldn't quite wrap his head around this turn of events. "But they were _brothers_! _"_ he reiterated.

Dean shrugged. "What can I say, Sammy? The heart wants what the heart wants."

Sam stared at him. He couldn't tell whether Dean was being serious or if he was trying to be provocative.

"Anyway, you owe me pie," he repeated.

Sam frowned. "I don't recall us making a bet – "

"I've just been possessed by a FRICKIN' angry spirit and I WANT PIE!" Dean insisted.

Sam considered for a moment then shrugged his lips in acknowledgement. That was fair.

"Ok."

"OK!"


	5. Scene 9

**SCENE 9**

 

So it was that Dean ended the day sitting on a motel bed with his pants off, holding a pie box in one hand and a beer in the other, and with Sam kneeling between his thighs. He reflected that it was a measure of the strange turn of events in his life that this wasn't even the weirdest thing that had happened to him that day. Discovering how Sam was funding their little hunting trip was, he was beginning to appreciate, the least of his worries. He'd barely blinked when Sam had signed the register then produced a credit card with the same false name. He supposed he would have to accept that hunting wasn't exactly a pro-ball career. Still, he had to wonder where Sam kept coming up with these freaky names. Seriously, who in the world was called _Misha_?

"OW!" he hissed.

"Hold still."

"Ow! That stings! Ow! Ow! Ow! OW!"

Sam clamped his great mitt around Dean's thigh and held it down while he continued to smear one of his evil smelling ointments onto the wound.

"Don't be such a baby. It isn't that bad," Sam assured him as he placed a dressing over it and secured it with Band-aids.

"That's easy for you to say," Dean grumbled, "You're not the one with a frickin' great hole in your leg."

Sam cast his hazel eyes upwards and he surveyed Dean through the fringe of his eye-lashes. "I've had worse," he said, and to make his point he pulled the collar of his shirt aside to reveal a long, pale caterpillar crawling across his shoulder blade. Dean reckoned there must have been about 15 stitches. "Rougaru outside Santa Fe," he explained. Then he stood up and pulled the shirt out of his jeans to reveal a reddish ridge of flesh just above his hip bone. "Shape-shifter in Cleveland," he added. For some reason, Dean felt vaguely saddened to see these wounds desecrating the magnificent body. Still, he couldn't resist puncturing Sam's little macho display.

"I got that beat," he said. Undoing a couple of buttons he exposed and pointed to his left breast.

Sam squinted at it. "I can't see anything," he replied, puzzled.

"Mary Ellen Moffat," Dean explained. "She broke my heart."

Sam stared at him blankly. 

" _Jaws_?" he elaborated. "Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss comparing their scars . . . very famous . . . Seriously? You've never seen Jaws?" 

Sam shook his head, unimpressed.

"How about _Lethal Weapon 3_ – no, on second thoughts, let's not go there."

All this was clearly going right over Sam's head so Dean returned to the more serious issue. "Did you say shape-shifter?"

Sam cracked his own beer and took a long swallow. "Yup," he confirmed.

"There are really such things as shape-shifters?" Dean wondered why he was still bothering to even go through the motions of doubting the things Sam told him but, _really_ , _shape-shifters_? Sam proceeded to describe the creature, its nature, origins and feeding habits in more detail than Dean could have wished for, but somehow he couldn't stop asking questions.

"And what was the other thing? A ruby . . ."

"Rougaru. It's a kind of cannibal. Human until it gets its first taste of human flesh then it turns into a monster."

"You're making this up," Dean scoffed, unwisely.

Sam went to his back-pack and pulled out a thick loose-leaf binder. He flicked through the pages then handed it to Dean, open at a page headed "Rougaru". The page contained copious notes on the creature, and on the facing page there was an equally detailed illustration of same.

"Eeeeesh!" Dean exclaimed, drawing his head back rather quickly from the gruesome pictorial. Then he started leafing through the other pages. _Well, this isn't creepy at all_ , he thought. It read like the Monster Book of Monsters. He half expected it to leap up and make a grab for his jugular at any moment. "What is this?" he asked, uneasily.

"It's my journal," Sam replied.

Dean felt a chill wash over him.

"It's a record of everything I've hunted," Sam continued. "Every hunter has one, or something like it."

Dean passed a hand round the back of his neck and found the sweat that had gathered there was, indeed, cold. "Seriously? You've personally hunted all these things?"

Sam shook his head. "Just the front section. Behind that is a summary of all the lore passed down through the family."

"So . . . it's like your Book of Shadows?"

"I'm not a witch, Dean."

"Pity. Witches are hot."

Sam stared at him aghast. "No, they're _not_!"

"Well, Shannon Doherty was."

Another blank stare from Sam.

"You never saw _Charmed_ , either, did you?"

Sam slowly shook his head again.

"So you don't watch movies or TV . . ." Dean gazed at him with mock puzzlement. "What do you do with your time?"

Sam took a moment to absorb Dean's irony, but then he allowed himself a tiny smile, and Dean felt oddly comforted to see the traces of his dimples creasing his cheeks. "I read a lot," he responded.

Dean grinned, but then returned his attention to the disturbing journal. Apparently Sam wrote a lot as well. He turned a page and was confronted with another of Sam's horribly graphic illustrations. _Oh, surely not!_ "I don't believe this, Sam! You really are giving me demons, ghouls and vampires!"

Sam took a swallow of beer, gulped rather quickly and almost choked on it. "What?" he demanded, pulling the book out of Dean's hand to check what he was reading.

"You're seriously telling me that _vampires_ exist?"

Sam closed the book and returned it to his backpack. "They do. But they don't glitter, and they don't date cheerleaders."

"And they have more teeth, apparently," Dean added, recalling the gruesome visual.

"Yep. They're fast, and they're strong. They usually sleep during the day, but they're not destroyed by sunlight, and you can't hold them back with a crucifix or gank them with a stake; you have to decapitate them."

Dean stared at Sam. That was it. He'd reached his level on crazy and now his silly meter had kicked in.

"Gank? Is that a technical term?" he asked, innocently.

"It means kill," Sam replied, in all seriousness. "It's an expression we use – "

Dean was laughing.

"You think this stuff's funny?" Sam asked, incredulously.

Dean was actually wiping tears from his eyes. "You can't see the funny side?"

"No. Really can't."

"Seriously? You're going to stand there and tell me you gank rougarus with a straight face?"

Sam glared at Dean, his lips pruning with disapproval, while Dean smirked back at him unabashed. The battle of wills persisted for several moments but then Dean saw the corners of Sam's lips twitching and he knew he had him beat. A moment later the twitch had turned into a full on grin and Sam was shaking his head, very nearly laughing, and the dimples were lighting up his whole face.

"Well, what do you know?" Dean grinned, too. "The bitch cracks a smile at last!"

He held his bottle toward Sam. Sam hesitated for only half a beat then gave in and chinked his own bottle against it.

"So, Sam . . ." Dean was a little reluctant to move on from the happy moment, but he realized they had unfinished business to attend to. "How do we gank these brothers?"

Sam's beer paused on its way to his mouth, then dropped to his side with an apparently casual gesture. "Basic salt and burn," he replied. "I figure they have to be down the bottom of that gully somewhere, just hidden where nobody's found them. I'll go down there with the EMF metre at first light, find them and torch them."

Dean felt like he'd been slapped round the face with a wet towel. Sam had been dragging him round on this case all day, was he going to leave him out of the final reel?

"You're an 'I', all of a sudden? I thought we were a team?"

Sam frowned with that little pointy up eyebrow thingy that he did.

"I just thought, after what just happened, you might want to sit this one out," he suggested.

"Hell, no!" Dean cried. What? Did Sam think he was a coward? "After what those sons-of-bitches did to me? I wanna gank their asses!"

Sam stared at the floor. His jaw tightened and he jerked his head stiffly to one side. "Dean . . ." he began in a low voice, "I almost got you killed back there."

_Wow._ It began to dawn on Dean that Sam had serious responsibility issues. " _We_ almost got killed back there. And those creeps used me to do it. Come, on Sam. You know you can't go down there on your own. _You_ could get possessed, or attacked at least. Somebody's gotta have your back! You know I'm right. I'm right, aren't I?"

Sam was shaking his head but Dean had a feeling that meant yes. "Come on, Sam," he persisted. "You and me. Let's go kick Casper squared into the light."

Sam was giving Dean a very odd look. Eventually he stood up and dropped his empty beer bottle into a waste bin. He took Dean's bottle out of his hand.

"Hey!" Dean protested.

"If we're going to do this, we're both going to need to get some rest before dawn," he said. "Do you want a hot drink to help you sleep?"

"What are you gonna put in it this time?" Dean asked suspiciously. "Are you gonna drug me again?"

"It wasn't a drug, it was a herbal sleep remedy. Five parts valerian."

"Really?" Dean gazed up at Sam through arched eyebrows. "And the other five parts?"

"More exotic ingredients," Sam acknowledged.

"Whatever it was, it was damned powerful. I'll pass."

Sam hesitated. "Are you sure, Dean? It'd help make sure you're sleep's . . . restful."

By which Dean guessed Sam meant nightmare free. And just that thought was enough to bring the nightmare back to the front of Dean's mind and before his eyes again. He shook his head, trying to banish it to back to the cell he'd reserved for it all day.

"I'm fine, Sam. Thanks all the same."

Sam looked doubtful but he didn't argue. Presently he sat down on his own bed and kicked off his shoes. It struck Dean that he was looking tired himself. Exhausted, even. Dean wondered when Sam had last slept.

"Sam . . ."

"Hmm?"

Dean was afraid to ask the question he'd been avoiding/worrying about ever since the café, but he had to know the answer. "Angry spirits are caused by violence, right?"

"Right." Sam was rubbing his eyes.

Dean made several attempts to make his lips form the question and Sam seemed to pick up on his difficulties because he stopped rubbing his eyes and frowned questioningly at Dean.

"M . . Mom died violently, Sam," Dean said finally. "Will she – ?"

"Your mother's at rest, Dean," Sam insisted bluntly.

"How do you – ?

"Because I made sure, Dean." Sam fixed him with an earnest stare. "I saw to it." He nodded firmly for extra emphasis. "She's at peace."

Dean's focus drifted away from Sam and settled somewhere vaguely in front of him. Did he want to know what measures Sam had taken . . . no. No, he didn't. He lifted his head back abruptly, drew in a deep breath and sniffed sharply. He wiped his hand over his mouth before turning back to speak.

"Thanks, Sam – " Sam was on his back on the bed, already asleep. Dean smiled and shook his head slightly. Standing up he retrieved his beer from the sink area where Sam had left it. After draining its contents he dropped the bottle in the waste bin then opened the refrigerator and took out another. As he cracked it open, as quietly as he could, his eyes fell on Sam's back-pack. He glanced at Sam. Dean spent less time debating the ethics with himself than he did wondering if he could get away with it, but Sam seemed to be out like a light so he gingerly bent over and started easing the bag open. Once he'd managed to get the journal out without waking Sam he retired to the other side of the room with it.

To say it was absorbing reading would hardly be accurate – more like morbidly fascinating – but, either way, once Dean started he couldn't stop. He kept turning the leaves even though he could feel himself becoming more chilled with each fresh page, and his mouth was twisting into a more and more pronounced and fixed grimace.

He didn't know what disturbed him more, the seemingly endless catalog of horrors or the cool and meticulous manner in which their descriptions, histories, habitats and disgusting feeding habits, and the bizarre methods used to kill the creatures, were all methodically listed and codified in Sam's small, neat and elegant print. The illustrations were something else again. They were raw, dynamic and dark, and every line seemed to radiate anger and pain. It was as if Sam was two different people: a suffering soul trapped in a mind of steel.

It vaguely occurred to Dean that he should write that down. It was a good line.

Sam stirred in his sleep and Dean started and shivered. As he watched him, Sam turned onto his side and curled into a fetal ball. He lay with his head cradled in one arm and his other hand lay curled close to his mouth and it looked for all the world like he was about to suck his thumb. Slowly and oh-so-quietly Dean stood up and tiptoed toward the bed to look at the sleeping form.

Dean hadn't appreciated how much strain and tension Sam carried in his face until he saw him now with his muscles relaxed in sleep, and it was brought back home to him how young Sam was – not much more than a kid. It was easy to forget that. Dean's head tipped to one side as he gazed at the boy's face with its fine, delicate features. There was something profoundly gentle and fragile and pure there, and it struck Dean that he was looking at true beauty. He cast a troubled glance back at the journal and thought about the two Sams that had seemed to be battling it out between its pages, and he wondered what either of them had to do with the sleeping angel in front of him.

Reaching over to his own bed, Dean carefully pulled the cover from it and very gently laid it over Sam as he slept. He found himself having to resist an urge to bend over and lay a kiss on the boy's forehead. He settled for tucking the cover around him before he stepped back. "Goodnight, Sammy," he whispered.

Drifting over to the window he gazed out into a darkness now full of all the monsters he'd been told didn't exist. Almost unconsciously he started humming Metallica. He glanced over at the kitchenette then back out of the window, then he frowned and shook his head. If Sam hadn't thought it was necessary, then it wasn't necessary, and he'd just be making himself look . . .

He glanced back at the bed. Hell, with it. Dean walked over to the kitchenette, fetched the salt and started laying a line along the window. It wasn't fear, it was precaution.

Once he'd satisfied himself that all the entry points were covered he returned to the journal and settled down with his beer. It took him most of the rest of the night just to cover all the monsters Sam had personally hunted. Dean could hardly fathom how he'd had time to kill so many. As he started on the second section of the journal he looked out of the window and saw that the darkness was starting to give way to the grey that comes just before the first light dawns.

He glanced over at Sam and realized, regretfully, that he should probably rouse him. Pausing from his reading he got up and made them each a coffee, setting Sam's down beside his bed and giving him a light shake. "Up and at 'em, Tiger," he said. "Rise and Shine." As Sam grunted and started returning to the waking world Dean returned the journal to Sam's back-pack, but before he closed the book he turned down a corner to mark the point he'd reached, the first page of a section headed "Demons".


	6. Scene 10

**SCENE 10**

 

Sam worked his feet into his boots as he sipped at his coffee. After going to the bathroom and splashing his face he started preparing for the hunt. This time he planned to take every possible precaution. Taking a small flannel bag from his supplies pouch he added angelica root and a couple of cat's eye shells then he pulled out his pocket knife and a small square of muslin. Dean was leaning against the room divider still nursing his coffee and humming. He was wearing his old jeans again now since the ones Sam had bought him were now lying torn and bloody over a chair.

"Are you still sure you want to do this?" Sam asked him.

"We already had this conversation," Dean growled.

Sam nodded. He was beginning to understand that Dean needed this. He needed a victory against this strange, new supernatural world so he wouldn't feel helpless against it.

"Ok, well, give me your hand."

Dean arched an eyebrow but proffered his hand as Sam reached out for it, then hurriedly snatched it back again as Sam extended his pocket knife.

"Whoa! Hey! What?" Dean objected.

"I just need a little blood for a protective charm," Sam explained.

"Use your own!" Dean exclaimed.

"I will. This is for both of us."

Dean glowered but reluctantly extended his hand once more. "I was bleeding last night," he grumbled. "You couldn't have taken some then? Yow! Jeesh! _Son-of-a-bitch!_ "

Sam dabbed the blood off Dean's finger with the muslin and as he let go Dean stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked exaggeratedly. It still baffled Sam a little how, on the one hand, Dean would insist on participating in a dangerous ghost hunt and, on the other, be so precious about a little nick on the finger. He drew and added his own blood to the muslin square then dropped it in the flannel bag with the other items.

As for Dean himself, Sam was taking no chances. Taking the amulet from around his own neck he held the strange object in his hand for a few moments and gazed at it. He'd worn it for eighteen years and never thought to part with it yet, for some reason, he had no misgivings whatsoever about giving it to Dean. He held it out to its new owner.

"I want you to have this," he said.

"What is it?" Dean asked as he took it from Sam's hand, holding it up and studying the carved head with curiosity.

Sam hesitated. He didn't actually know. He'd been only four years old when Mr. Singer had given it to him, and all the old hunter had told him was that it was "very special" and it would keep him safe, and Sam had always believed it. "It'll protect you," Sam said vaguely, "Against angry spirits, possession, rougarus, shape-shifters and monsters various."

Dean didn't appear to be listening. He was still studying the carving. "I think I've seen something like it before," he said.

Sam shrugged. "I doubt it. I think it's a unique piece."

"Really? Well . . . thanks. I'll take good care of it," Dean assured him.

Sam watched as Dean lifted the cord and slipped it over his own head, and as the amulet dropped against his chest Sam felt a strange but very real and palpable glow of heat wash over his body. He was filled with a sudden conviction that the amulet was where it was meant to be. The sense of rightness he felt as it rested against Dean's chest made him feel, retrospectively, that there had been something missing there before. Dean himself didn't act as if he'd noticed anything strange or mystical. Had it just been a flight of fancy on Sam's part?

"What about you?" Dean asked.

"What? Oh, I'm covered," Sam assured him, holding up his wrist and indicating the circlet tied around it. Oddly, though, Sam felt no less protected by the amulet now that it was around Dean's neck than he had when he'd worn it himself.

Dean squinted at the braid round Sam's wrist. "Oh, yeah. I had one of those once, too. I gave it to Myra Bradley in 7th Grade. It didn't stop her getting possessive and angry."

Sam rolled his eyes. He was coming to the conclusion that some such gesture was as much acknowledgement as Dean's smart-ass comments required or as Dean expected. He picked up the salt from the kitchenette and headed out to the car to gather the rest of the equipment. Once he'd emptied the trunk and propped open the bottom with a shotgun he pulled out a duffel bag and packed the salt into it along with accelerant, a cigarette lighter, a small fire extinguisher and a torch. He added the EMF monitor and, for good measure, the infra-red thermo-scanner. With the addition of some more iron spikes and a couple of fire irons they were almost good to go. Sam handed the duffel bag to Dean and opened a box that contained comms equipment and other small items. He pulled out an earpiece for his cell-phone and a spare headset for Dean, who was poking about in the duffel bag and examining the scanner with curiosity.

"Measures cold and hot spots," Sam explained.

Dean mouthed an "oh," and nodded, returning the scanner to the bag as Sam passed him the headset.

"See if that fits your cell," Sam said, taking out his own cell and sliding his earpiece into place, then he called Dean's cell. Catching on, Dean stuck the earphones in and answered Sam's call.

"Mary had a little lamb," Sam said.

"She also had a bear," Dean responded.

Sam gave a nod of confirmation and was about to end the call when Dean added:

"I've often seen her little lamb, but never seen her bear."

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. "Seriously, Dean?"

Dean just gave an indifferent shrug, but they'd established the comms equipment was working.

"I'll drive," Sam said as he headed to the front of the car. "Get a spike out, just in case."

The last thing Sam did was to drop the mojo bag in the glove compartment just as Dean slipped into the passenger seat clutching the duffel bag as if it were a security blanket and holding a spike at the ready though, Sam noted with relief, not as aggressively as the previous evening.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Dean nodded determinedly. "Bring it on, baby!"

  

~

  
Sam swung his cell round in a slow 360 degree arc, studying the camera image as he turned. "It all seems quiet," he commented.

"That's reassuring," said Dean.

"Not really," Sam replied.

Dean gave him a look. "You don't have a gismo in your bag of tricks that picks up irony, then?" he remarked.

"Pass the salt," Sam said, shooting him a warning glare to forestall any more smart comments. He put down a line around the Impala and another circle near the edge of the gully closest to where the EMF meter had shown the strongest readings then he took out a length of rope from the trunk and secured one end of it to the back of the car. As he carried the coil over to the other circle and handed it to Dean he took care not to allow the rope to trail in either of the salt lines. He'd rammed a spike into a piece of cork to give it a handle and he'd threaded it through his belt loop. Now he hooked the handle of one of the fire irons into the belt of his jeans and started securing the other end of the rope around his body.

"I need you to hold on to the rope and feed it out as I go down," he explained. "Don't let it touch the salt if you can help it. The salt will keep the spirits away from you and they shouldn't be able to use the Impala as a weapon, but keep your irons at the ready and keep an eye out for projectiles. Not a lot you can do about those except duck and block."

"What's wrong with this picture?" Dean asked.

"What?"

Dean was gazing at Sam from under arched eyebrows. "You're gonna make me say this, aren't you?"

Sam shook his head, uncomprehending.

"Out of the two of us, who weighs the least and who's the one with the upper body strength?" Dean elaborated. "Why are you the one going down?"

"Dean – "

"No, I get it. You think you're giving me the safest job but, let's face it, the easiest way to drop the guy on the rope is to attack the guy holding it, so we're both targets here. We may as well be smart about it. There's nothing that complicated about the actual salt and burn bit that I couldn't manage it, is there?"

Sam hesitated, but Dean's logic was hard to fault. "Have you ever done any rock climbing?" he asked.

"Mmm . . ." Dean shrugged. "Back in the boy scouts."

"You were a scout?"

Dean grinned. "Do you want me to show you my boondoggle?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but transferred the irons to Dean's belt and started tying the rope around his body. "The rope itself is impregnated with salt so it'll act as a protective circle while you have it round you but, as I say, you still have to watch out for projectiles," Sam explained. "Just be careful, Dean," he breathed as he handed him the duffel bag without meeting his gaze. He didn't want Dean to see the concern and anxiety he felt.

As Dean hitched the bag over his shoulders Sam called his cell and Dean inserted his earphones.

"Stay in touch the whole time," Sam cautioned him.

"Gotcha."

The first part of the climb was straightforward – just a matter of finding footholds and handholds but they were reasonably abundant. A couple of times a loose boulder would give Dean an anxious moment but it quickly taught him to test his footing more carefully before putting his weight on it. He was soon getting the hang of it and making good progress.

"How's it going, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Just call me Spiderman. Any sign of Frank and Jessie, yet?"

The silence that greeted the question indicated another pop culture reference had gone over Sam's head. _I'm wasted on him_ , Dean thought.

"Still seems quiet at the moment," Sam assured him, though it would have been more reassuring if he hadn't used the word _seems_. As if to illustrate the point the EMF monitor chose that moment to start buzzing excitedly in the duffel bag.

"Sam . . ." He was ashamed to hear the nervousness in his voice, aware that Sam could probably hear it too. "Your gismo's squawking."

"Yeah. Just stop where you are and stay sharp." Sam's voice was unnaturally calm and Dean didn't find it nearly as comforting as Sam was obviously trying to make it. The next moment however he felt the tension on the rope around him tighten perceptibly and he found that an inexpressibly reassuring reminder of the physical connection between them, and it sent an unspoken message: Sam had his back.

He tightened his grip on the rock face and double checked his footholds then Sam spoke again and this time he could hear the agitation in his voice.

"Dean, are you ok?"

"Yeah I'm – _Crap_." His flesh became chilled, and when his breath started to come out of his mouth in an icy fog it confirmed Dean's suspicion that he was royally boned. The hair on the back of his neck was prickling again and he started to get that feeling you get when you're watching a horror movie and you just _know_ the monster is right behind the hero.

"Dean?"

He was afraid to look.

The rope tightened a little more. "Dean?"

He took a deep breath and turned his head.

"GUH!"

"Dean!"

He'd almost lost his footing but he'd made a grab for the rock face and held on and now he was clinging to it, flat against the rock, with his eyes tight shut. _Oh yeah, THAT'S smart!_ He forced himself to open his eyes and stared at the ghastly vision of Daniel Whitman. The once handsome young face was now a macabre parody of itself, the features gaunt, flesh glossy with the pallor of death, lips cracked and bloodless. The eyes were the worst: dark and sunken, with milky irises leeched of colour, they were devoid of humanity - hollow and empty yet, paradoxically, filled with malice. If the eyes are the mirrors of the soul then what Dean saw reflected there . . . He swallowed. Thin, icy fingers crawled over his body and grasped at his flesh.

"Got a visitor," he told Sam in a low, trembling growl.

"Yeah." Sam's unsurprised tone made Dean wonder what was going on up top. "Can you reach it?"

 _Reach it?_ Dean was staring at a freaking _ghost_! He couldn't frickin' move!

Dean swallowed again and cleared his throat. "Sam, I need you to tell me something," he croaked. Man, the way that thing was just standing there staring at him was _fucking_ unnerving. "I need you to tell me they're more afraid of us than we are of them."

There was a pause then Sam said "if they're attacking us, it means they're afraid," he said.

"Ok," Dean murmured. "Good to know."

Slowly he made his hand move. Reaching down, he unhooked the fire iron from his belt.

. . .

On the other side of the salt circle, one of the brothers was staring at Sam. It wasn't the one pictured in the news column, Daniel, so it had to be Saul. At present the spirit wasn't doing anything, just staring. Sam braced his weight against the rope and secured his stance. He glanced down at the fire iron, but attacking the spirit would mean compromising his grip on the rope. So long as the spirit wasn't forcing a confrontation he was more concerned with keeping Dean secure. But then he heard a crack of wood behind him. " _Crap_ ," he breathed and glanced backwards. The spirit was breaking down a branch from a tree. He readied himself to take evasive action.

"Got incoming up here," he warned Dean. "Make sure you've got a good grip on something." The next moment the branch soared toward him and he ducked just as it whizzed past his head. Dean yelled in his ear and he immediately braced himself against the rope once more. In the next moment, the apparition in front of him fizzled and disappeared.

. . .

The rope slackened just as Dean took his swipe. He lost his grip on the rock and nearly dropped the iron as his body swung precariously out from the rock face. "Whoa!" he yelled, grabbing for the rope, and was relieved to feel it tighten once more. He swung himself back against the rock bringing the iron swooping around with him. It sliced through the apparition and hit the rock behind with a metallic ring and a small shower of sparks as the spirit disappeared with an electrical sounding "fzz".

Dean flattened himself against the wall gasping and panting, but as soon as he'd recovered his breath he let out a wild whoop of excitement. "Sam, I got the freak!" he yelled.

He could hear Sam laughing with relief at the other end. "Go Dean!" he cried.

Dean grinned broadly. "One to team Winchester!"

"Ahem! Shouldn't that be _Campbell_ and Winchester," Sam objected.

"Hey, I scored the touchdown!" Dean pointed out, self-importantly. "Be glad you made the team!"

"Ok, Dean, we need to work quickly now," Sam told him, " . . . without being reckless about it," he added as an afterthought, and then "Be careful, Dean."

"Hey, don't worry, Sammy," Dean assured him as he started spidering down the rock face once more. "Careful is my middle name."

Sam didn't verbalize a response but Dean heard a sound that expressed doubt.

Honestly, Dean was eager to get the climb and the rest of the job over with as quickly as possible. The sooner it was done the less opportunity the Gruesome Twosome would have to bother him and Sam. Still he recognized that it was probable they would attack again soon and, sure enough, about half way down to the bottom of the gully he stepped onto a narrow ledge and once again found himself opposed by the spectre of Daniel Whitman. This time, however, the spirit was keeping its distance. _They were learning._

"Smiley's back," Dean informed Sam. " . . . Sam?"

There was no response but a series of grunts and gasps.

"Sam? . . . What's going on?"

Still no answer. Clearly Sam was busy, and Dean felt his stomach muscles tighten with anxiety. He could feel the rope tightening, slackening and jerking by turns. Sam was under attack, and all Dean could do was wait helplessly to know the outcome. A particularly loud grunt and a yell in his ear made Dean instinctively look up, even though he was unable to see what was happening. When he turned his attention back to Daniel the grisly features were leering straight into his face.

With a startled yell he lost his grip on the rock, his feet slid off the ledge and his body dropped. And as he made a frantic grab for the rope it dropped right along with him. It felt like he was falling through his own insides and all he could think was _what the fuck's happened to Sam?_

. . .

Saul's attack was relentless. It was mostly a continuous barrage of leaves, dust, twigs and any litter that happened to be lying around the road, interspersed with uprooted clods of earth, but these were just distractions from the more dangerous missiles. Sam dodged a succession of broken branches before a small rock almost hit him in the head. Avoiding the rock wrong footed him and, at the same moment, a large branch hit him in the small of the back. He was knocked flat, and he measured his length out across the ground . . . over the salt line. This was the opportunity Saul had been waiting for and he leapt on Sam the moment the line was broken. Icy fingers speared straight through Sam's skull, chilling his brain. The rope was whizzing through his loose hands, rope burn a minor irritation compared to the blinding pain in his head, but he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip once more. Through the agonizing waves he became conscious that he could no longer feel Dean's weight against the rope and alarm added to his pain. Then the pain was gone, and so was Saul, but there was a sudden jerk on the rope and the next moment it felt like he was clinging to Dean's whole, dead weight and it was dragging him swiftly across the grass, toward the edge of the gully.

. . .

The jagged edges of rocks snagged at Dean's clothes and grazed burning furrows in his flesh, but his flailing arms and legs found no purchase until the strap of his duffel bag caught on a rocky outcrop and tightened around his throat. So now he wasn't falling any more, just choking. But at least the interruption in his descent was giving him the opportunity to find a foothold. Splaying out his legs, he managed to wedge his feet against the rock on either side of him and use it to lever himself upward, swinging up an arm to wrap it around the rock that had snagged his bag. He'd barely gained a grip with his fingers when Daniel's grim visage was thrust in his face once more. But, this time, Dean wasn't allowing himself to be intimidated since it seemed that, so long as he had the salt soaked rope around him, intimidate was all Daniel _could_ do to him.

He reached for the fire iron but was dismayed to find he no longer had it; it must have been dislodged from his belt during his fall. He still had the iron spike, but he couldn't reach it with his free hand. He felt for the rope instead and was relieved to discover he could feel Sam at the other end of it once more.

"Sam!" he called.

No answer. He realized the earphones were no longer in his ears; the headset was dangling free from the cell-phone on his trouser-belt. He wrapped the rope around his free arm and gripped it tight then he let go of the rock and made a grab for the spike.

"Eat iron, Fugly!" he yelled, thrusting the spike into Daniel's leering features.

Then he was slithering down the rock face once more, but he wasn't free-falling this time. He could feel Sam's weight on the other end of the rope but it was no longer anchoring him. Rather, he appeared to be pulling Sam down with him! His eyes widened in alarm and he snatched frantically at the rock, but his fingers only seemed to find loose shale and he achieved nothing except to bloody his fingernails. Then his foot jarred painfully against something solid and his momentum thrust him sharply out from the rock. His arms wind-milled madly as he was propelled backwards. The next moment the breath was knocked out of his body as he felt the impact of solid earth beneath him. He'd reached the bottom of the gully.

As soon as he'd recovered his senses he fished for the headset and plugged the earphones back in. "Sam!" he gasped. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Ragged gasps greeted his call at the other end then Sam cried "Dean! What's going on down there?"

"Well, the big news is that I just spiked DW again," Dean announced as he struggled to his feet. He didn't mention that he now appeared to have lost the spike _and_ the fire iron. "That's two," he continued as he made a hasty search for his weapons on the gully floor. "How's it going up there?"

"Salt line's been compromised," Sam admitted grimly as he levered himself up from his precarious position head and shoulders over the edge of the gully. "Saul's disappeared again, though. I think it's interesting that he vanished both times you attacked Daniel. It suggests they come as a package. That could work in our favor. They're working as a team, which makes them more dangerous, but it also makes them vulnerable. What hurts one hurts the other, too. We can use that against them."

"Well, that's something." Dean spotted the spike a few feet away. No sign of the fire iron as yet. "I'm at the bottom, by the way," he added as he retrieved the spike, limping slightly on his strained ankle – same leg that Sam had spiked the previous night he noted with irritation.

Sam paid out some extra rope to give Dean some room to manoeuvre then wrapped a protective loop around himself. He noticed ruefully that they were close to reaching the end of the rope. "I don't suppose you can see a car or some bones from where you're standing?" he asked with little optimism.

Dean did a quick 360 but didn't spot anything . . . except the fire iron, under a thicket a few feet away. He limped over to the bushes and as he bent over to pick up the iron the ground gave out under his feet.

The rope almost garrotted Sam at the middle. He was yanked forward and found himself stumbling toward the edge of the gully once more but he grabbed the rope and leaned his weight against it, digging his feet into the ground, and managed to stay his progress toward the edge.

"Dean?" he yelled.

Dean was dangling over the edge of a precipice that the bushes had obscured but, despite his predicament, he was congratulating himself on having managed to keep his hold on the fire iron. Reaching out with it he thrust the hooked end into the roots of one of the bushes and, once he was satisfied its hold was secure, he used it to help lever himself back up onto solid ground. Then he peered back down into the rift he'd inadvertently discovered.

"I'm good," he reassured Sam. "I've found something: another trench. Didn't see it before 'cause it's surrounded by vegetation. I'm thinking it looks like the kind of hole a car might fall into and not get noticed for a while," he added with a self-satisfied smirk he wished Sam could see.

"Use the scanner," Sam suggested. "See if you can pinpoint a cold spot."

The duffel bag was looking a little worse for wear after its trip down the rock face but it still had everything in it. Dean took out the infra-red thermo-scanner pointed it down into the trench and started adjusting the dials as Sam had shown him in his pre-hunt prep talk. Pencil thin beams of light streaked out from the instrument and sliced backwards and forwards across the rift, finally coming to a focus at a point at the bottom, some thirty metres to his right. "Yahtzee," he breathed. "Think I've got something," he added a little louder for Sam's benefit.

"Can you see it?"

Even without the obstruction of the bushes it was hard to see the floor of the trench. The early morning light wasn't yet reaching into its depths. Dean took out the flashlight and shone it along the gap but it yielded little but obscure shadows. Shining the beam straight down he tried to make out the bottom.

"Think I'm going to have to go down and take a look-see. How much rope do we have left?"

"About fifteen feet. Will it be enough?"

Dean grimaced. It was hard to judge but, frankly, he doubted it. "Maybe. Gotta give it a try, anyway."

"Ok, wait." Sam did another sweep with the phone camera. There was no sign of Saul, but he knew he could be back any moment. There was little choice but to continue, though, so he unwrapped the coil from around his body, drew in the slack and prepared to feed the rope for Dean once more. Dean commenced the climb down the lower gully and as he continued his descent Sam felt a growing sense of unease. What were the brothers waiting for? He paid out the rest of the length until, finally, the rope was stretching directly from the back of the Impala.

When Dean reached the end of his rope there was, as he feared, still some distance beneath him. He took out the flashlight again and shone it into the depths. How far was that? Fifteen, twenty feet? Far enough to have to drop, particularly with a dodgy ankle, but what choice did he have?

"Dean, what's your status?" Sam asked.

"My what?" Who did Sam think he was? Captain Cool from Special Ops?

"I mean how far – "

"Yeah, not far." Dean lifted the fire iron from his waist, took a breath then dropped it, gritting his teeth grimly when he heard a faint ring a couple of moments later. "I think I can jump it." Lifting the duffel bag from his shoulders he dropped it after the iron.

"Dean wait – "

"It's that or give up and go back, isn't it, Sam?" He began working on untying Sam's knots . . . a challenging task in itself

"Once you take off the rope you'll be exposed to attack," Sam reminded him.

"I'm aware."

Sam blew out a worried breath and scanned the area with his camera, fire iron at the ready. Dean gripped the end of the rope, pushed out with his foot, swung free of the rock face and dropped. He felt the impact of his feet against the ground an instant later, but he also felt the fire of the end of a branch raking up his back causing him to twist and land awkwardly. "SON OF A BITCH!" He yelled as pain spiked through his ankle and up his leg. Instinctively he rolled onto his back and there above him, silhouetted against the sky, was the face of Daniel Whitman. Icy fingers plunged into Dean's chest and the grip tightened around his heart, numbing him with a freezing agony that stopped his breath.

. . .

"Dean?" No answer. Sam glanced at his cell. The call had dropped out. "CRAP!" He spun in anxious circles, scanning with his camera until the image of Saul Whitman appeared in front of him, some feet away. He lunged toward it, brandishing the iron, but it vanished before he reached it, and then the barrage of projectiles began again. It drove him backwards until, as he took a step behind he felt the rope slide under his heel then his other foot snagged against it and he toppled to the ground, the fire iron flying out of his grasp as he fell. Saul was on him in an instant and the frozen fire burned in his brain once more. Briefly he was immobilized but then he forced himself to act through the pain, reaching for the spike that was still looped through his belt. His shaking fingers closed around it, pulled, then drove upwards and Saul's image sparked and disappeared.

Gasping and near to retching, Sam crawled to the edge of the gully. "Dean . . ." he gasped. Summoning his effort he tried again and yelled into the gully. "DEAN!"

Dean was coughing and heaving, too. He heard Sam's call, faintly, but it took him several moments to regain enough breath to shout back an acknowledgement. A check of his cell confirmed there was no signal. So he was cut off and alone, in the bottom of a ravine, hunting homicidal ghosts, in the dark. Awesome. He struggled to his feet, wincing as he tested his weight on the injured ankle. It wasn't broken, just sprained. "Well, hey, you wouldn't want this to be easy, would you?" he snarled as he gathered up the fire iron and the duffel bag, took out the torch, and started to limp his way along the bottom of the rift.

By this time the whole thing had become a little surreal, so he was actually quite stunned when he reached the end of the cutting and found himself staring at the wreckage of a car. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured.

Sam had cautioned him of the dangers of setting fire to an old car wreck, so he took out the salt, accelerant and cigarette lighter and left the duffel bag at a safe distance before edging warily forward. When he was close enough to see inside the car, what he found sent a chill skittering down his spine: two skeletons, in the front seat, locked together in a macabre embrace.

Dean was just thinking that it almost seemed a shame to break up the party when Daniel appeared in front of him and he crumpled to the ground as, once again, cold fingers stabbed into his chest. Then they were gone as Daniel's image twitched and blinked out. Dean just had time to gather himself before it reformed in front of him then it was gone again just as quickly. Dean frowned. What was going on?

But there was no time for reflection. Dean used the respite to start pouring the salt over the bones. The next moment he was fighting for breath once more with Daniel's deadly grip around his heart, then he heard the now familiar fizzle sound and the apparition was gone again. What the fuck was Sam doing up there?

This time he had enough time to finish salting the bones and he poured over the accelerant, but just as he was reaching for the lighter he was thrown bodily backwards and landed heavily against the bole of a tree. Daniel was in his face again, and Dean felt the agonizing clutch of his fingers, and this time he wasn't going away.

But Dean was too close to putting a permanent end to this asshole to let the creep get the better of him now. Fighting through the waves of pain he flicked open the lighter and felt the singe of its flame against his fingers. If he could only aim true . . . if the flame would only stay lit . . .

He closed his eyes and threw the lighter . . . and prayed.

. . .

Saul was back, but he wasn't making the mistake of getting too close to Sam, and Sam wasn't going to be drawn into another pointless lunge either. Instead he bent down and reached into the remains of the salt line. Scooping up a handful he threw it at the image, which promptly disappeared. It bought a little time but it wasn't as effective as iron and the spirit soon returned. Sam cursed under his breath as he swept up another scoop of salt and propelled it at his attacker. _Surely_ there must be an easier way to fight an angry spirit than this.

When Saul came back for the third time Sam took aim with the iron spike and propelled it into the centre of the apparition. That should have given them a reasonable respite, but Sam was shocked at how quickly the spirit renewed its energies, and its attack. Dean must be close to his quarry; rage and fear was making the brothers stronger. Sam was just retrieving the iron spike when he was lifted up and flung against the Impala. His head cracked against the fender and he fell to the ground, stunned. He saw Saul's face close to his and, once more, the icy fingers clawed into his brain. Sam could feel Saul's fear and savage rage. The pain in his skull was unendurable; he was slipping into darkness, but before he lost consciousness he heard a cold spectral voice in his head. "He'll turn you into a monster," Saul told him in a chilling whisper, "and then he'll condemn you for it."

. . .

Dean would have held his breath, if he had any to hold, but as one moment then another passed the pain was overcoming him, and he could feel consciousness slipping away from him, but then he became aware of red light flickering in the periphery of his vision and Daniel's image faltered in front of him. The spirit's rage was palpable. Dean hadn't thought the pain could get any worse but it did, and then a voice spoke in his ear.

"He'll betray you," Daniel hissed. "You'll give up everything you have for him, and then he'll abandon you!" Then he snarled as corrosive red fire began to consume him, eating at his form until he screamed, shrieked and was gone. Dean stared wide eyed, panting and gasping, into the empty space that the spirit had left. Then he turned over and vomited.

Ahead of him the flames were growing in intensity, finding fuel in the upholstery. The old familiar fascination gripped Dean as he sat up and watched them leaping and licking into the air, but now it was laced with an unspeakable horror and the recollection he kept trying to deny. The fire danced in his eyes as he stared at it transfixed, then suddenly it exploded in a wild angry ball and a hot gust knocked Dean onto his back. He struggled back into a sitting position just in time to see a line of yellow-blue flame streaking toward him. Some instinct of self-preservation sped his thought processes and he mentally connected the flame's progress to the can of accelerant lying next to him.

"FUCK!" he yelled, leaping sideways just in time to see the can go up with a _WOOF_ sound, like the punch-line of a bad joke. He was just gasping with relief when he smelled burning denim and felt searing heat against his leg. It would amaze him afterward, when he thought back to it, how quickly he got his shirt off and doused the flames. Without a doubt, the speed of his reactions had saved his life. But, in that moment, all he could think about was that his jeans were ruined. In that moment, he cared less about the pain in his scorched leg – the same _fucking_ leg – his injured ankle, the still throbbing ache in his chest, or the myriad cuts, grazes and bruises he'd sustained on the climb down.

He staggered to his feet and supported himself with his hands on his thighs as he bent over and fought with the sting behind his tightly closed eyelids. "It's just a pair of jeans," he reasoned with himself. "It's _just_ a pair of jeans." But it was his _last_ pair of jeans, one of those few items of clothing that had survived the fire with him, and he felt like the flames were pursuing him still, greedy to finish the job off.

Distantly he heard a voice calling to him and, after a beat, recognized it as Sam's. He struggled to regain composure and tried to call back but his voice came out thin and wispy. He swallowed, vented a harsh growl into the empty air then stood up straight and yelled "I'm good, Sam! You ok?" The reply was indecipherable but the tone sounded kind of positive.

The job wasn't quite over yet. The fire was still raging and the vegetation around it was starting to catch. Dean limped over to where he'd left the duffel bag and took out the fire extinguisher. Now that the flames had served their purpose he could set about snuffing them out.

He still felt the old pull as he neared the flames, the urge to get too close. How many times did he have to get burned before he learned the lesson? Grimly, he lifted the extinguisher and aimed the nozzle at the fire. He'd all but emptied the whole canister before the last of the flickering tongues was doused.

Then it was a mere matter of finding where he'd left the end of the rope and climbing fifteen or so feet of sheer rock face freehand, and with an injured leg, to reach it. As it happened, it wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Light was beginning to reach the bottom of the cutting as he returned to the place where he'd climbed down and, now he could see the rope, it turned out that it was only about ten feet from the rift floor. Nevertheless, climbing up to it was difficult and painful and the blessed relief he felt when he finally reached it, tied it around his waist, and felt the pull of Sam's strength at the other end, lifting him, was beyond words.

And _hellfire!_ Sam _was_ strong. Dean was doing little more than guiding himself upward, Sam was doing the rest. When he finally reached the top of the gully he reached out an arm and felt Sam's powerful grip close around his wrist raising him up. And as he stumbled up to stand beside him Dean was just so fucking glad to see him again, and to stand on level ground, and just to be fucking _alive_ , that he practically fell into Sam's arms and gripped him with a bear hug that would have squeezed the breath out of a less solidly built man.

He could feel Sam's body stiffen with shock, dismay and discomfort until he was as rigid as one of his own fire irons, and his arms were kind of flailing like he didn't know what to do with them, but tough tits. He was just going to have to deal with it because Dean wasn't about to let go, leastways until he had his swimming eyes and the lump in his throat under control. Eventually Sam's arms circled Dean's shoulders and he did that patting thing men do when they're trying to make a hug seem more macho, and which has the unspoken subtext "please let go now; you're embarrassing me". Dean relented and drew away, giving Sam's head a semi-rough push as he did so, just to reassure Sam that everything was cool and manly after all, and he wasn't about to suggest they took a shower together or anything – though, it had to be said, they both needed one.

As Dean stepped back Sam's gaze registered shock as he took in Dean's battered, torn, smoked and scorched appearance. Dean returned an innocent and quizzical look as if he didn't know what Sam's problem was, a look that _dared_ Sam to make a comment. Sam spent a moment absorbing Dean's expression then asked, casually "So, did you have any trouble down there?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips. "Nah." Then, "Oh! . . . I lost your lighter. Sorry," he added as an afterthought.

Sam stared at him for a moment then clicked his tongue. "I can get another," he sighed as he picked up the duffel bag and started heading back to the Impala with it.

Dean limped a couple of steps in silence, then he growled "Next time _I'll_ hold the rope."

Sam's laugh was like summer rain.

They leaned against the hood of the Impala and just sat there together laughing for a minute or two.

"We should have brought some beer along," Dean remarked.

Sam shook his head and swept his tongue across the inside of his cheek. "We'll remember that next time," he agreed.

"Oh!" Dean remembered suddenly. He reached round his neck and pulled Sam's weird necklace thing up over his head and held it out to Sam. "I guess you'll be wanting this back, now," he said.

Sam looked taken aback. "No . . ." He frowned. "It's yours. To keep."

Dean's eyebrows lifted and his lips parted softly " . . . w . . . b . . . but didn't you say it was valuable or something?"

Sam shook his head. "I said it was unique. I'm not aware it has any monetary value. Besides . . ." His face broke into a broad, dimpled grin, "you ganked your first monsters today. Consider it . . . a hazing gift."

"Really?" Dean gazed with delight at the strange . . . oddly familiar . . . carved head. "Are you sure?"

Sam nodded, smiling. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Dean slipped the cord back around his neck and dropped the amulet back in place on his chest. "Thank you, Sam. I love it."

Silence descended and became a little awkward. This was turning into too much of a chick-flick moment and Dean couldn't resist having a bit of fun with it. Reaching out and grabbing Sam's head he planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Sam leapt off the hood of the Impala and almost fell over in his hurry to get away.

"Dean, what the fuck . . . ?" he yelped.

"Ah, suck it up, Bitch," Dean told him, grinning. "Take it like a man."

Sam stared at Dean mystified; he really didn't know how to take him sometimes, his behaviour was so . . . inappropriate . . . and why did he keep calling Sam a bitch? How was _that_ appropriate? But from the cheerful way Dean was grinning at him it was clear he was supposed to take the shot in good spirits . . . . . . Was he supposed to shoot back? . . . He tested the premise.

"Jerk!" he spluttered.

Dean continued to grin, if anything, even more broadly.

Well, apparently so. Sam shook his head again, then picked up the duffel bag and headed back to the trunk with it. He emptied it and was arranging everything in order in the trunk when Dean limped up beside him and started idly pulling things out and examining them. He picked up a shotgun, checked it, cracked it open and stared down the barrels. Sam patiently took it out of his hands and put it back where it belonged before continuing organizing the cache. Next Dean picked up a box of ammo and started examining the cartridges.

"So, salt . . ." he said suddenly, out of the blue, " . . . effective against a variety of your common or garden monsters, right?"

Sam agreed and held out his hand for the ammo box. Dean placed it in his hand and he returned it to its place in the cache.

"Ok, well, don't laugh if this is a stupid idea . . . after all, what would I know?" he continued. "But could you make ammunition out of it?"

Sam was about to dismiss the idea, but then he thought about it and he suddenly realized . . . _rock salt_! He had to laugh. If he hadn't he would have cried. He imagined people must have felt like this the first time someone asked "would it be easier to push if we put something round under it?"

"Ok, so it's stupid," Dean grumbled.

"No! No, it's not!" Sam gasped hastily. "It's _not_ a stupid idea, Dean."

Dean raised his eyebrows. He looked like an excited child. "It would work?"

Sam grinned. "I think it might." _Dean Winchester, you strange, brave, ridiculous, brilliant, infuriating, beautiful man. I so want to kiss you._

Dean pursed his lips happily and gave a smug little toss of his head before limping back to the front of the Impala and climbing into the passenger seat. Sam climbed in beside him and took the wheel. As he started the car Dean turned the radio on and was about to push the cassette tape into the slot, but he listened to the beat of the song that was playing for a moment and hesitated.

"Hmmph," he grunted. "Maybe a bit C&W for the Impala, but it's one of their rockier numbers . . . and you can't argue with Joe Walsh's guitar work, now can you?"

Sam shrugged. Whoever Joe Walsh was.

Dean let the radio play and after a moment he started clapping and singing along to it.

♫ _Somebody's gonna hurt someone_ ,♫ he crooned, ♫ _before the night is through._  
♫ _Somebody's gonna come undone. There's nothing we can do_ . . . ♫

He continued to sing in high spirits, and when the chorus came he started to air guitar along with it as well. Sam glanced at him uneasily. It struck him that this excessively cheerful mood was unnatural, and he worried that when the adrenalin rush of the hunt wore off Dean was going to crash and burn. Apprehension started to stew in his insides. Sam was convinced his emotionally volatile friend was heading for a melt down, and he knew he was ill-equipped to deal with it. He just prayed that when the time came some inspiration would guide him and he'd say and do the right things, but the words that seemed to answer him from the radio were far from comforting.

♫ _There's gonna be a heartache tonight, heartache tonight, I know_ ,♫ Dean sang along, his fingers sliding up and down the imaginary frets. ♫ _There's gonna be a heartache tonight, heartache tonight, I know. Let's go!_

♫ _Well, we can beat around the bushes;_  
_We can get down to the bone_  
_We can leave it in the parkin' lot,_  
_But either way, there's gonna be a_  
_Heartache tonight, a heartache tonight I know._  
  
_I know, there'll be a heartache tonight_  
_A heartache tonight I know. Whoa. ♫_

. . . 

"Break my heart . . ."


	7. Scenes 11 & 12

 

**SCENE 11**

 

Green wasn't his colour. Maybe you'd think it would be, but it wasn't. Not this shade of green, anyway. Dean was a winter, and this green was . . . spring or something. Anyway, it didn't suit his skin tones. It made him look sallow and pasty. Well, that's what you get when you let another man dress you.

 Ok, that was a bit of an exaggeration. After all, it was only a t-shirt and a pair of joggers, and he appreciated he needed a change of clothes, and it was more practical to let Sam dash in and grab him something than to alarm the staff and customers of K-mart by limping in himself with his, admittedly, rather grisly appearance.

 Trouble was, it was _always_ easier to let Sam do everything for him and, if Dean wasn't careful, it was going to become a habit. Sam with his seemingly endless mental to-do-list that he was continually checking off, so methodically, never at a loss for what needed to be done next – he made sure Dean was fed, watered, clothed, showered (all right, he'd let Dean do _that_ for himself), but he'd dressed his wounds afterward, smearing him with 57 varieties of his weirdo herbal witch-doctor crap. It was sweet, sort of, he supposed, the way Sam took care of him. But it was kind of weird, too. It had to be said, Sam was a tad controlling.

 And now he was doing Dean's laundry for him. All right, he was doing _their_ laundry for them. But what was he going to do when it was finished? Would he fold Dean's boxers for him? That just wasn't _right_ . . . and he _would,_ wouldn't he? Sam would fold everything. Hell, Dean wouldn't put it past him to _iron_ everything! It was like he was turning into Dean's mother or someth –

 Dean's breath caught in his chest. The next moment he was fighting the urge to heave and a thin, cold film of sweat coated his skin. He splashed some cold water on his face and dried it off, finished brushing his teeth, spat, and returned to the other room picking up his guitar on the way to the bed. He dropped onto the mattress half sitting, half lying, with the guitar over his lap. He lay there for a while with his eyes closed, idly strumming chords. It wasn't long before they started falling into the pattern of his 'mythic quest' song.

 " _Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door,_  
_In the middle of the night. What you want me for?_  
_Why d'you walk into my life, knock me to the floor – "_

 Was that really only . . . . four nights ago? It felt like he and Sam had been together forever. So much had happened since then . . .

 It was incredible, when you thought about it, how easily and naturally he'd placed his life in the hands of a man he'd known only three days.

  _He'll betray you_. _You'll give up everything you have for him, and then he'll abandon you_.

 That was ridiculous. That didn't even make sense. That was just stupid ghost talk: a fucked up, angry spirit crapping on about its own fucked up, angry life. It had nothing to do with Dean, or Sam, or anything.

 Dean shook his head and concentrated on the music, the chords, the frets . . .

 " _There's a crossroads coming in your life,_  
_And your fate's gonna turn on the point of a knife._  
_He sang 'Hey, brother, come away with me._  
_Let me take you, let me show you how it's gotta b_. . .'"

 He felt a chilly trickle of unease down his back. Now that _was_ spooky.

  _Dean, have you never experienced anything out of the ordinary yourself before now? No odd dreams? Premonitions?_

 Oh, bull. It's just a coincidence.

  _Most people have had brushes with the supernatural, they just don't recognize it. They pass it off as imagination or try to rationalize it with some natural explanation_.

 Shuttup.

 Dean moved into the bridge and tried to play the interlude, but it didn't sound right without an amp. He couldn't even plug it into the laptop; Sam had brought the guitar but not the leads and peripherals . . . something else Sam had done for him. Along with all the stuff he'd brought from the house, including the photographs – now _that_ was thoughtful. There were different sides to Sam, he appreciated that, but hunter-Sam was positively Machiavellian. He was completely goal-driven. He'd hacked into Dean's laptop without so much as a by-your-leave, he treated the Impala as if it was his own: he never asked Dean if he could drive it, he _told_ him. And he'd taken over the trunk and turned the car into his monster mobile . . . and half the weaponry was Dad's and Dad had kept that locked up, so that means Sam had broken in . . .

 Dean didn't doubt that Sam had done what he thought was necessary, or that he had Dean's best interests at heart, but it was a damn good job he did because you wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of a man like that, would you?

 A _tad_ controlling? Sam had taken over his life! He'd organized the business with Stan, delegated his mum's funeral arrangements to her family . . .

 Dean's breath hitched again , and now his eyes were stinging as well. He shook his head fiercely.

 Sam had relieved Dean of the worry of these things when he wasn't mentally ready to deal with them . . . but maybe Dean _should_ have dealt with them . . . people were going to wonder why he wasn't at his own mother's funeral. He _should_ have been there. He _would_ have been if they hadn't been running from . . .

 What _were_ they running from? Sam still hadn't told him, but he'd seemed to know . . . or have some idea, at least. He'd said Dean was in danger, that he was a target . . . He said he didn't know where Dad was . . . but he'd acknowledged he was in trouble, though he thought he was probably alive . . . Dean slowly laid the guitar down by the side of the bed, swung his legs round and sat up. _There_ it was.

 Dean's breathing was shallow and his flesh buzzed with the dread of the thing that he knew was right behind him, the thing he'd kept seeing out of the corner of his eye but been afraid to turn and look at. Sam _knew_ something. He just wasn't telling Dean. What was he keeping back? This was a man who talked casually of fighting shape-shifters and vampires, who'd called the spirits they'd just fought together "a basic salt and burn" and thought this a suitable case for Dean to cut his teeth on. What could Sam possibly still be afraid to tell Dean? What would _Sam_ run from?

 He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising once more as his gaze fell on Sam's back-pack. As he searched for the journal his hand lighted on Sam's bottle of holy water first. He pushed it to one side, but then picked it up and looked at it again. He was remembering something: a faceful of water, right before Sam had jumped him the night they met . . . _what_ had Sam expected to be fighting?

 "Oh _no_!" he whispered, sinking down into a chair with the book before him on his knees. " _No no no no_. . ." It fell open at the page he'd turned down. "That can't . . . there can't _really_ be . . ."

 Dean studied the pages in front of him with a horror that was nauseating. Just the day before he had joked of demons, ghosts and vampires as if they were all the same thing, but they _weren't_ the same. The monsters Sam had talked about, the creatures he'd catalogued in his journal up to this point, were just that: creatures - animals, or perverted, maimed forms of humanity. They were motivated by basic instincts, like the need to survive, feed, reproduce – or basic emotions you could wrap your head around like anger or fear, even love that had become twisted by rage and hate and frustration. These were things Dean could understand, things you could fight. But a demon was a whole different order of _supernatural_. This was something that hurt and killed and destroyed _just for the sake of it_ – just for the sheer pleasure of causing pain and devastation. It wasn't even of this world. It came from . . . somewhere that couldn't possibly _exist_. Even to contemplate it was unthinkable. This was beyond monstrous. It was _evil_. How could you fight that? To fight it was to set yourself against the place it came from, against the _source_ of that evil.

 Dean didn't want to fight that. He didn't want to believe in it. He wanted to run, run home and climb into his bed, and hide under the covers shivering. But he could never go home. There was no home, no bed, and there were no covers to hide under. There was only ashes and dust.

 He lifted his eyes to cast a fearful glance out of the window and was shocked to see bright sunlight shining in the world outside. He felt cold. It was a cold that coated his flesh, seeped through his muscles, veins and nerves, and gripped his bones. It numbed his fingers. He couldn't feel the page of the journal as he turned it. It was long moments before he could make himself see the words written there. But eventually he managed to focus and began to read a passage headed "Demon Signs and Omens": 

 

> _ Indications of Demon Activity in a Locality _
> 
> _Electrical storms_  
>  _Sudden variations and/or extremes of temperature_  
>  _Cattle deaths_
> 
> _Indications of the Immediate Presence of a Demon _
> 
> _Electrical disturbances or failures_  
>  _Telekinetic events_  
>  _Smell of sulfur or sulfuric deposits._
> 
> _Tests for Demonic Possession _
> 
> _A demon will flinch at the mention of the name of God._  
>  _A demon will have a corrosive response to holy water and/or salt._

 Dean read the passage again. Then he read it a third time, and this time his nerveless finger traced a passage down the page as he slowly absorbed the information and everything it implied.

 Long after Dean had ceased to focus on the writing, his finger still continued to travel the same path down the page, like a death echo mindlessly repeating the same action over and over again. 

 

**SCENE 12**

 

Sam held the pile of folded laundry pinned between his forearm and his chin while he turned the room key and pushed the door open.

"Sorry I've been so long; I ran out of change for the drier," he said, sliding the pile down onto the table then dividing it between his own clothes and Dean's and something was wrong.

He couldn't have said what it was that alerted him, but something in the room was off and when he looked at Dean he felt the hammer-fall of his heart against his rib cage and the sickish chill of having his earlier misgivings confirmed. Dean was sitting with Sam's journal perched on his knees and, even at this distance and upside down, Sam could see which page Dean was reading. Except, he didn't appear to be reading it – at least, not any more – his vision was focused at a point somewhere in front of him, and Sam noticed with unease the mechanical manner in which Dean's finger kept stroking the neglected page.

Cat-like, Sam felt every nerve and muscle in his body readying for a confrontation. He felt there was a palpable tension in the room, like the dry crackle of static you can feel in the atmosphere after a long spell without rain; on the heaviest, most oppressive day when you can smell the storm coming and feel the deluge straining for release; in the moment before the thunder speaks . . .

"It was a demon, wasn't it?" Dean said quietly.

Sam didn't mistake that quiet for calm. It was hard to characterize Dean's expression as he lifted his almost demon-dark eyes to hold Sam's. It appeared impassive, but it was anything but calm.

Sam didn't know what to say. He waited for inspiration, the guidance he'd prayed for, but there was nothing. He had no idea how he could make this any better.

Dean stood up slowly, and slowly placed the journal on the table. Everything he did was slow, and Sam found himself almost unconsciously edging backwards until the top of the kitchenette jabbed into his hip.

"So, it wasn't an accident that you came to stay with us, was it Sam? You were there for a purpose. You were hunting." Dean placed his finger on the journal. "You were hunting _this_."

Sam hesitated only briefly then swallowed and nodded. "Yes." Essentially. "That's right. Yes."

Still Dean held Sam with his impassive stare, and his finger began stroking the page again. "So, you knew about it," he reiterated. "You knew it was coming for us." He took a step closer to Sam. "You _knew_. . . and you never told us, never warned any of us . . . you never said _anything_."

Dean's anger was something to behold. It was dangerous because it was pure, primal, utterly without thought for consequences or self-preservation. It couldn't be reasoned with or safely restrained. All you could do, if you were smart, was get the fuck out of its way. But Sam wasn't planning to be smart. Sam had determined to take whatever was coming because Dean had a right to it: to his pain and his rage . . . and his retribution, whatever that turned out to be - more than that, he _needed_ it – but, _Dear God,_ Sam would never have imagined he could feel as afraid of Dean as he did at this moment.

His gaze slid away from Dean's and he replied hoarsely, "I'm sorry."

But Dean's intense eyes found him again and held him from under the arch of his eyebrows.

"You're _sorry_?"

Sam swallowed on a mouth run dry. "I thought . . . I didn't think – if I tried to explain – that you'd believe me – that any of you would . . . I thought that at least if I could stay on the spot . . . I thought I could protect you all," he finished lamely. There was a silence in which Sam reached backwards for the edge of the kitchenette, to steady himself, and he could hear the sound of a clock ticking. But when Dean spoke it was still with that unnaturally quiet voice, and Sam wished he would just snap and get it over with.

"Well, you did a piss poor job of it," Dean said.

Sam's forehead tightened into a tiny frown and his jaw tightened with a slight sideways twist. _You're still alive, Dean,_ a small voice wanted to protest, but he said nothing. He only had John to thank for that.

Dean finally turned his head, releasing Sam briefly from his accusing stare, as he transferred his attention back to the journal, finger resting on the page once more.

"It says here that demons act by possessing people; they act through host bodies it says . . ."

Sam's eyes widened. The hammer of his heart sped up like a piston and he drew in a sharp hard breath through his nose. _Oh, no. Don't go there. Not yet. It's too soon. You're not ready_. . .

"So, who was the host that night, Sam?"

Sam was staring like a deer caught in the headlights, and Dean was flooring the gas pedal.

"Who did the demon possess?" he demanded. When Sam still didn't respond he added. "Where were _you_ when Mom died, Sam?"

The question Dean was asking was so far from Sam's thoughts that Dean had to repeat it, and it was only when Sam registered the trace of a hysterical edge in Dean's voice that he realized it wasn't rhetorical.

"Sam! _Where were you_?"

Sam's hesitation now was simply confusion. "Y – you know where I was, Dean . . . I was with you. We were talking . . . w . . . ?"

"Before that. When she went to bed. You were upstairs. What were you doing up there?"

Sam's mouth dropped open. This possibility – this interpretation of the facts simply hadn't occurred to him.

"I . . . went to the bathroom . . ." he began, but immediately recognized that the habitual lies were no longer serving him and hurriedly added "and then I checked your mother's room, and yours. Everything seemed fine, then. I passed Amanda in the hall . . . and she was fine. That was the last time I saw her."

Dean was studying him through arched eyebrows again. "And I know that _because_ . . . ?"

Sam realized with horror that he had nothing, nothing beyond asking Dean to trust in his sincerity, and it wasn't as if he'd been unfailingly forthright up to that moment.

"Dean, it wasn't me!" he gasped. "Why would you even _think_ that?"

When Dean replied his lips and voice were shaking. The levee was beginning to break. "One day I had a perfectly normal life and the next it was a river of crap and, in between, you happened. The whole world goes fucking insane and you just happen to be there, the one person who knows something about it. What am I supposed to believe?" His eyes began to swim with helpless tears. "Come on, Sam! Throw me a bone, here! Give me a reason to believe you!"

Apparently it was an infection. Sam could feel the sting in his own eyes. "Dean," His voice was low and trembling. "It _wasn't_ me."

"There were only three people in the house that night, Sam: you, me and Mom."

Sam opened his mouth then stopped as he suddenly wondered: would it be kinder to let Dean think it _was_ him?

"Sam?"

But he was going to want to know – _need_ to know – what had happened to his father. Sooner or later he was going to have to hear the truth.

Sam's fingers tightened around the rim of the kitchenette. "There was someone else."

The silence stretched out. It took so long for Dean to ask the question that Sam began to wonder whether he was afraid to hear the answer, but then he moved closer and his voice hardened.

" _Who?_ " he demanded.

Sam's breath was coming short and shallow.

" _Tell me the truth, Sam!"_

His adrenalin drenched muscles were twitching, urging him to move, but Sam stood his ground. _Whatever happens_. . . _Whatever he does_ . . .

"Your father."

All the air left Dean's body. He looked down and to the side and forced another airless breath out of his mouth in a ghastly parody of a laugh, and his teeth were bared in a vicious, mirthless grin. Every nuance of his body was telegraphing his intent and Sam gripped the edge of the kitchenette, forcing himself to stillness.

And yet, when the punch came, Sam was still unprepared for the force of it. Who knew Dean's fist could pack that much power? It exploded in Sam's face and knocked him off of his feet. He would have fallen if Dean hadn't immediately followed the blow, grabbing Sam's shirt and slamming him against the wall.

"You're telling me my _father_ killed my mother!" Dean snarled. "Is that what you're saying, Sam?"

Sam stood frozen against the wall. It wasn't even about letting Dean vent any more, it was about not doing anything that might provoke him further, anything that might cause the situation to snowball into something that could only end bloody.

"Dean, _no_!" he gasped. "It wasn't your father. It was the demon! Your father was possessed!" He could see Dean's body quaking, feel Dean's hands shaking against his chest. "You've experienced that, you know how it feels, you know it's out of your control!"

Sam watched the blood drain from Dean's face until his skin was tinged green and his lips were ashen. "But I knew what was happening, Sam," he barely whispered. "I knew what I was doing, I just couldn't stop . . ." Then his breath was coming in sharp gasps. "W-would Dad have known? Would he have been able to see . . . feel what he was . . . Sam?"

Dean's eyes were pleading and Sam didn't know what to say. "I don't know," he barely whispered. He cleared his throat. "Victims have reported periods of consciousness but at other times – "

Dean's grasp tightened around Sam's collar. He shook him and banged him against the wall. It was just a gesture, there was no strength left in him, but as Sam stared into Dean's eyes he knew he couldn't lie to him. He swallowed on a throat that was so tight it hurt. "I think he was conscious, Dean." His eyes hurt. His chest hurt. "I'm sorry."

Dean drew his hands back behind his head and Sam tensed in expectation of another blow, but it didn't come. Instead Dean snatched the car keys off the table, reached the door in two strides and was through it, slamming it behind him, almost before Sam had time to react.

"Dean, what – where are you – Dean, stop! Don't!" he cried, following him through the door.

Outside Dean was leaning unsteadily against the side of the Impala, then his body heaved and he doubled over and threw up over the tarmac, retching violently and repeatedly. Sam stood irresolute at first but, as he watched, Dean weakened and his legs began to buckle; he was in danger of falling into his own vomit. Sam made a move toward him, hesitated for a moment, but then stepped forward and slipped a hand under Dean's shoulder to help him support himself, and held his hair back out of his eyes with the other.

It continued painfully for long minutes as Dean emptied the contents of his stomach, then spewed bile, and still continued locked in the grip of dry heaves, coughing, gasping and hiccupping, and all Sam could do was to wait helplessly for the spasms to run their course, feeling Dean's body shudder and listening to his suffering as the smell of hot vomit rose from the cold tarmac.

A couple passed by on their way out from their own room and stared at Dean with expressions caught between disgust and concern. The woman might have been about to speak but Sam's warning glare hastened them both on their way without comment, and Dean began to cough his gag reflex under some kind of control. Then he slowly straightened up and weakly pushed Sam away.

"Get away from me," he gasped, shakily pushing the car keys into the lock.

"Dean, no!"

"I'm not kidding, Sam. Back off!" he growled.

He already had the driver side door open but Sam slammed it shut before he could get in and, pinning Dean between his own body and the side of the Impala, he grabbed his arm and held his wrist against the roof of the car. Dean struggled beneath him but his hold was secure and Dean's strength was at its lowest ebb. He spoke in Dean's ear, keeping his voice as low and calm as he could possibly make it. "Dean, let go of the keys. Please. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't let you drive in this state. Dean, _please_."

Dean's struggles persisted a beat longer, then ceased, and he lay beneath Sam limp and inert. He swallowed and closed his eyes and his grip on the car keys relaxed. A part of Sam was tempted to stay close to Dean like that, to hold him and comfort him. The ease with which Dean had given up the struggle almost persuaded him that it was what Dean wanted, too. Nevertheless, as soon as he'd drawn the keys from Dean's loose fingers he stepped back. A moment later Dean opened his eyes and pushed himself upright, then he opened the car door.

"Go back inside, Sam," he insisted in a hoarse whisper then, when Sam hesitated, he repeated the command more loudly but in a voice that crumbled from trembling lips. By the time he stumbled into the car his shoulders were shaking and tears were already raining down his face.

Sam stood frozen with indecision.

" _Get inside, Sam!"_ Dean yelled once more before slamming the door, closing himself inside the Impala and slumping over the wheel.

Sam obeyed finally but, once inside the motel room, he kept watch on the Impala discreetly from behind the curtain, his anxieties only slightly mollified by the hard outline of the car keys inside his fist, and the knowledge that Dean wasn't going anywhere.

Inside the Impala Dean still felt exposed and vulnerable, and he was convinced Sam was still watching him, even from inside the motel room. Scrambling over the back of the seat he crawled into the back of the car and grabbed a blanket and cushion from behind the back seat. Stretched out across the upholstery, beneath the blanket and with his face buried in the cushion, he finally let it go, venting his grief in sobs that racked his whole body and ended in howls of anguish as he beat at the leather with his fists and kicked out at the floor and the metalwork that housed the front seat, raging against the thoughts he couldn't endure, and couldn't escape.

It was only exhaustion, not relief that ended it. When his tears had dried into salty tracks on his face though his shoulders still heaved with mute sobs then he finally pushed himself back upright and tried to draw breath with a semblance of self control. Pulling out a handkerchief he wiped at the residue of tears and snot. He gazed sightless at the sodden piece of linen for some time before his swollen eyes began to focus on a small red blur in a corner that eventually sharpened and revealed itself as a line of red stitching in the shape of an 'S'. It was the handkerchief that Sam had given him and he'd been carrying around with him ever since he'd let Alyson Holder have his. He stared dumbly at it for a few moments before his head dropped back and he let out a groan that was part confusion, part self-reproach.

"Oh, what am I _doing_?" he gasped.

He felt helpless and bewildered. His head ached and throbbed from too much . . . too much everything, and that was without trying to make sense of the conundrum that was Sam Campbell and all the conflicting thoughts Dean had had about him since he'd first started reading that damned journal. Looked at one way, it seemed that Dean had every reason to mistrust Sam: he knew next to nothing about him except that he was controlling, manipulative and evasive and he'd swept into Dean's life with nine kinds of crazy at his heels and there was no way of knowing for sure which had followed who. On the other hand, it felt like there was no excuse for doubting him when the kid had done nothing but look out for Dean from the get go, and all Dean was doing was hurting someone who actually seemed to care about his welfare . . . though why he _should_ remained a mystery.

They'd ganked angry spirits together for fuck's sake!

Dean found he still had some tears left after all, but he growled them back down inside him. He needed to think clearly. Trouble was, so often thinking only got him piles of facts with no way of choosing between them other than to go with his gut. In the end, it came down to a choice: did he trust Sam or not?

Dad had said that our choices were the only thing in life we had any control over, and Dean had the feeling this might be one of the most important he'd ever make. He found himself staring down at the brass amulet that lay against his chest. Lifting it up, he pulled the cord from around his neck and held it in his hand, studying the carving and wondering again what it was and what it meant.

In the end it came down to small things, stupid even: it was about that little upturned frown Sam got on his face, or the way he would blush sometimes, or that tight little bitch-faced purse he got to his lips when Dean wound him up; it was about the way he would try to be oh-so-serious, but then he'd crack and the dimples would show. Maybe it wasn't logical, but these were the things Dean couldn't get past. Damn it all, he _liked_ Sam.

Honestly, Dean didn't know for sure whether it was an act of faith or an act of desperation. All he knew was that everything he'd ever thought he could depend on had been swept from under his feet, and if he didn't find something to believe in he was going to go right out of his mind. He gazed at the amulet, weighing it in his hand a moment longer, then he slipped it back over his head and let it drop into place. For better or worse, he chose to believe in those dimples.

Dean felt hot and feverish. He needed a drink. And he needed a little talk with Sam. He still had a lot of questions and, damn it, Sam was going to give him some answers.


	8. Final and closing credits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes the final scene of this episode followed by closing credits and a look ahead to upcoming episodes in the serial.

**FINAL**

When Sam saw Dean getting out of the car he made a hasty retreat from the window and sat on the end of the bed trying to look casual . . . except he realized that sitting with one hand on his hip and the other on his knee probably didn't look as casual as all that. Then he caught himself scratching behind his ear and hastily dropped his hand into his lap as Dean walked through the door.

Dean looked awful. His eyes were red and swollen, his face tear-tracked and blotchy, and his lips were bloody where he'd been biting into them. He stopped in the doorway for a moment staring and looking equally shocked to see Sam then he crossed to the sink. He looked tense but Sam was relieved to note that the rage seemed to have passed. The atmosphere in the room now was more one of awkwardness.

Dean ran the cold tap, splashed his face and dried it off with a dish towel, but it didn't improve his appearance much. He turned to look at Sam briefly but didn't seem to want to focus on him for long. He opened the refrigerator and busied himself in the icebox instead.

"You couldn't have found anything in your witch-kit to put on that?" he asked in a voice that came out hoarse and wispy.

It took Sam a moment to realize what Dean meant then his hand strayed up to his own throbbing face, and as he felt the sore and puffy flesh under his fingers it occurred to him that his own appearance might not be a lot better than Dean's.

"I hadn't thought about it," he admitted.

Dean turned from the refrigerator holding an ice tray, which he twisted and upturned into the dish towel. "No, you were too busy spying on me."

"I wasn't sp – "

Dean dropped on one knee in front of Sam and held the make-shift ice-pack against Sam's cheek. "What are you afraid will happen if you take your eyes off me for five minutes, Sam?"

Sam winced but after the initial shock of the contact wore off the coolness against his skin felt good. "The way you were when you walked out, I didn't know what you might do."

"Oh, you're worried I'm a danger to myself now?"

Sam gazed levelly at Dean. "It crossed my mind."

Their eyes met and there was a moment, a sense of connection, but then Dean grabbed Sam's hand, pressed it into place against the ice-pack and stepped back.

"Well, you can relax," Dean assured him. "I'm not ready to drive off the end of a pier just yet." He looked for a towel to dry his hand, remembered Sam had it and used the leg of his joggers instead. He gave Sam another awkward glance.

"What were you thinking, letting me do that to you?" he demanded. "Is this some kind of kinky-into-pain thing?"

"What? _No_!" Sam could feel a blush creeping into his cheeks. Was Dean beginning to suspect Sam's feelings toward him? Was that why he kept making all these loaded comments?

"We both know you don't have to put up with this shit from me, Sam. You could put me in hospital as soon as breathe on me. So what gives?"

"I don't _want_ to put you in hospital, Dean. You've been through hell; you were upset. I thought it was best to just let you get it out of your system."

"By using you as my punch bag? Are you freaking _insane_?"

Sam shrugged and Dean stared at him for a second. He ran a thumbnail over an eyebrow then picked up the ice-tray and brandished it at Sam reprovingly. "Don't do that again!" he insisted, before shoving the tray back in the ice-box.

Sam pursed his lips. It struck him as a positive statement, on the whole. If Dean was still laying down ground rules for their relationship that pre-supposed they still had one.

Dean pulled two beers out of the refrigerator and handed one to Sam. He cracked the top on the other, took a swig and used it as a mouthwash before spitting it out into the sink. He took a couple of long swallows before he spoke again, but when he did his voice was still coming out in a hoarse croak. Apparently he'd strained his throat while he was out in the Impala.

"Why do you care so much, Sam?" he asked. "You don't know me. A few days ago you hadn't even met me. Why have you decided to make yourself my self-appointed guardian angel?"

Sam felt heat rising into his cheeks again, and the ice was melting and starting to run down his arm in chilly rivulets. He didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound, at best, pathetic and at worst downright creepy. He wasn't going to admit that an irrational infatuation had anything to do with it, no matter what Dean suspected, and the visions were a can of worms he didn't want to open until he absolutely had to. He couldn't even explain to himself why Dean's untrammeled offer of friendship had meant so much to him. He should know better. Attachment and sentiment were the parents of error and poor judgment; they were weaknesses to be exploited. He should have learned his lesson already. And Dean wouldn't understand anyway. He'd always had a lot of friends; he was popular in his home town, he had friends at college, his girlfriend, he'd had parents who loved him . . . he'd never experienced loneliness.

Sam felt the unfamiliar sting at the corners of his eyes again and stiffened his jaw against it. What the hell was Dean doing to him? He needed to get a grip.

In the end there was only one thing he could say. Sam hated playing the dead mother card, with Dean of all people, but it was the only thing he had that made any sense. He swallowed and jerked his head sideways.

"We have a common enemy, Dean," he said, raising his head to gauge Dean's reaction. "The demon killed my mother, too."

Dean eyes widened and his lips parted; Sam felt bad watching the information pressing all of Dean's buttons, and he hastened to put it in some perspective. "It was years ago. I was just a baby," he explained. "I don't even remember her. If it weren't for old photographs I wouldn't even know what she looked like. But finding the thing that killed her was my grandfather's obsession. I was brought up with it. We all were - my cousins and me. We were raised like warriors: combat training, weapon training, ammunition, melting silver into bullets. We hunted, we fought monsters, we never found the demon, so we killed what we could find, but it was always in the background – the search, trying to trace its movements, figure out its plans – but I realize now even Samuel never had any idea what he was up against."

"Samuel?"

"My grandfather."

"You call your grandfather 'Samuel'?"

"Trust me, he's not the kind of man you call 'Pop'. He runs the family like a guerilla outfit. He's like this patriarch descended from a long line of hunters that came over with the pilgrim fathers, if you believe everything Samuel says."

Dean wore a frown of concentration as he absorbed all that Sam was telling him. "And where was your father in all this?"

"I never knew him. Samuel says he was just some drifter who blew into town, got my mother knocked up and moved on. My grandfather raised me."

Dean tilted his head forward and arched his eyebrows. "You call that being raised? What you just described?"

Sam shrugged. There was a steady flow of water running down his arm now so he tossed the icepack into the sink and wiped his face and arm on his shirt. He tried not to notice the way Dean was looking at him through all this with large, troubled eyes. He had a horrible sense that Dean was feeling sorry for him, and he hated it. Sam wasn't the one deserving sympathy right now.

"I was trying to get out of the life, away from hunting, starting fresh in a new town. That was the plan, anyway." Sam drew a breath in and out in a sharp, heavy sigh. "I was running away, I guess," he admitted. "But there isn't any getting away, not when you know what's out there. I hadn't been in town a month when I started noticing the demon sign, and I knew what it meant." Sam swallowed as he saw Dean's knuckles whiten around his beer bottle. "And maybe you're right, Dean. Maybe I should have said something to you, or your father, but I didn't think it would do any good. And I _tried_ , Dean. I tried everything I knew to protect your family. I put protection circles round the house, round your room and your parents' room. It should have worked. It would have done, if it had been any ordinary demon the spells would have kept it out."

Dean's head jerked back. He straightened up and put down his beer. "Are you saying this _isn't_ an ordinary demon?"

Sam drew in a deep breath. Dean already knew the worst; it was only a matter of filling in the rest of the picture, but Sam couldn't help thinking about the old saw, "the devil's in the detail". It had never seemed more apt than it did at that moment. Nevertheless, Sam bit the bullet and started relating the events of Thursday night, from the point where he had pulled Dean out of the flaming room and knocked him unconscious to the moment he had come round on the neighbour's lawn. Sam recounted the demon's revelations and threats, described its strength and power and frankly admitted his own impotence against it and, finally, he described the unprecedented moment when John had broken free of the demon's influence.

"It was only for a few moments, but it was long enough for me to get you out of the house. I don't know how he did it. I've never heard of anyone beating demonic possession before, not even briefly, but your father did it. He saved your life, Dean. He saved both our lives."

Dean was pale. He stood with his arms clasped protectively around his body, and his eyes were wide and frightened. After a beat he reached for his beer but his hand paused short of the bottle. He turned back to Sam. "Do you have any more of that medicinal whisky?" he asked.

Sam nodded and fetched the flask from his backpack, and Dean received it with trembling fingers. He quickly swallowed several mouthfuls and gasped.

"Ok, so how do we find this thing?" he demanded.

Sam's mouth dropped open. Had Dean been listening to anything Sam had told him?

"Dean, you _don't_ find it. Not yet, anyway. Right now my priority is to make sure it doesn't find _you_!"

"Let it find me!" Dean cried. "Bring it on!"

"Dean, listen – "

"No, Sam, _you_ listen! This thing's got Dad! It's driving him around like a cheap rental car, doing . . . God knows _what_! I can't just sit on my ass, I have to help him!"

"Dean, you're no help to your father _dead_!" Sam hadn't meant to shout, and he hadn't meant to be so blunt, but he had to get through to Dean. He'd managed to shut Dean up, briefly, at least. And he had his attention. "Dean, we're talking about a higher level demon here. There is nothing you can do right now."

Dean took another shot of whisky. "Well, what does a fucking higher level demon _want_ with us anyway? Sam, why is this _happening_?"

"I don't know, Dean. I honestly don't know. Your family doesn't even fit the M.O."

"There's an M.O.?"

 _Crap_. Sam nodded. "Yes, we've recorded a number of other house fires where a demon was involved. In all the other cases there was a child in the household. Yours is the first case where all the family members were adults."

"Well . . . that's gotta be a clue."

"Of course it is, but I don't know what it means."

"Seems to me you don't know a whole heap, Sam, considering you've had twenty odd years to study this thing."

There was silence. Sam didn't know what to say and they seemed to be at an impasse, but then Dean sighed.

"I'm sorry, Sam. But it's Dad. I can't just . . ." He shook his head and sat down heavily on the bed, and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "What about your family?" he demanded. "Can we go visit them? Maybe your grandfather knows more."

"I know everything he does. I told you, we were all brought up with it."

"But you can't be certain he told you everything – "

"I can't go back there, Dean."

"Sam, could you just put your prodigal grandson issues on the back burner for – "

" _Dean, I can never go home!"_

Dean looked up wide-eyed, and Sam looked away. It was humiliating to see himself reflected there, in honest eyes that were, as yet, untainted by the world that had bred Sam. It seemed that he could never have a conversation with Dean that didn't end with him having either to hide something or admit something shameful.

He sank down on the bed opposite Dean and sat staring at the floor, drawing several breaths before he finally managed to force out a sentence.

"One of my cousins was killed on my watch," he explained. "We were raiding a nest of vampires and . . . and I was distracted; I made errors of judgment, and Gwen was t – she was taken." He could feel the weight of Dean's stare on the top of his head, even if he didn't dare look up at him. "Gwen was Samuel's favourite. She reminded him of my mother. He never forgave me for . . . getting her killed." Sam cleared his throat and looked up without meeting Dean's gaze. "Anyway, suffice to say, my persona isn't exactly grata in the Campbell camp any more. That avenue's closed to us." Sam stood up and leaned against the room partition. In the silence that followed his confession Sam was tempted to pull out the Taurus from the back of his jeans, locate the ticking clock and shoot it. He took a long pull from his beer and wished himself almost any place else. Right about now Dean must be wondering how Sam could ever have had the audacity to expect Dean to put any faith in him.

It was Dean who finally broke the silence with a comment that, at first, seemed apropos of nothing.

"You know Dad's a former marine, don't you?" he said.

Sam turned and looked at him for the first time, wondering where this was going.

"He doesn't talk about it much, but he saw combat. He lost friends, colleagues. I know he lost someone under his command once. Shit happens in battle, Sam." He stood up and walked over to Sam and placed a hand on the partition close to where Sam was leaning. It made Sam uncomfortable. He was standing too close . . . or not close enough. It was disturbing. "Sam, I don't know what went down with your cousin, and I'm not going to presume to tell you how to deal. What would I know? Maybe you never get over something like that. But I do know this . . ." He tilted his head down until his eyes found Sam's and then he lifted Sam's gaze just with the sheer force of his will until they were both standing upright and meeting each other face to face. "Not _everything_ is on you, Sam. What happened to Mom, what's happened to Dad, is not on you. The things I said earlier were bang out of order. You tried to help them. You don't have to beat yourself up because you went fifteen rounds with a demon and lost on points. Even if saving people and hunting things _is_ the family business, putting up with my shit isn't in the job description, and picking up stray civilians and turning them into hunters has gotta be above and beyond. That's not a job. That's proselyting."

Sam shook his head. "I'm just trying to show you how to defend and protect yourself."

"I get that, Sam. But it's not on you. You _don't_ owe me anything. I owe _you_. Ok? You saved my life!"

"That's not what this is about!"

"Then what?"

 _Crap_.

Dean waited for an answer and his eyebrows gave a slight hitch of expectation.

 _I hate you, Dean Winchester_. "The Righteous Brothers."

"What?"

"Agents Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield," Sam repeated. "You and me. We're a team, you said. And I'm not giving up, Dean. _We're_ not giving up. I told you, I want to take this demon down as much as you do. It must have a weakness, vulnerabilities. We're going to keep searching until we find a way to beat it, and save your father. And in the meantime we train, we fight, and we get stronger, so when the time comes . . . we're ready."

Dean's eyes were large and dark as he studied Sam from under the arch of his eyebrows, and suddenly those shining green-brown pools were all Sam could see or think about.

A slow grin spread across Dean's face. "I've got a million of those, you know?" he said.

Sam swallowed and tried to focus. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. There are so many _great_  musicians and rock players."

Sam rolled his eyes. "And I'll bet you know them all," he said, adopting a longsuffering tone.

Dean grinned. "It's a deal then. I'll provide the hot wheels and the cool aliases and you teach me everything you know." He turned to the table and laid his hand on Sam's journal, and then he was suddenly serious. "I want to know it all, Sam, about everything you've written in here: everything you know about every evil thing. I want to learn all there is to learn about hunting. Like you said, I want to be ready."

Sam felt a knot of doubt growing in his gut as he gazed at Dean and saw him glowing with the fire of a man on a mission. Wasn't it what Sam had always intended? To teach Dean how to protect himself, how to survive? But was survival all that mattered? Sam knew what the hunting life did to a person, knew the kind of creature it made of you when blood and death were your nine to five, and a day at the office could include having to gank someone you care about. Would he have to watch as all of Dean's warmth and vitality became mired in darkness and ugliness, as every good impulse and feeling in him was ripped out or buried, and all of his joy and fun turned into a travesty of itself?

To everything there is a season; was Dean supposed to have had his? Sam wondered now if it wouldn't have been kinder after all to let him go up in flames with the rest of his life, if prolonging his time simply meant killing everything about him that made him human, made him Dean.

Well, Sam had a mission of his own, then, and as he gazed at Dean he made a silent vow:

_I promise you now, I will never let that happen._

Dean was waiting for an answer, and Sam nodded. "You got it," he assured him.

"Ok," Dean said. "Well, I'm gonna go and clean up . . . and I'd better make some calls."

"Who to?" Sam was alarmed. Did Dean still not realize that every contact with his past made him vulnerable?

But, apparently, he did. "Sam, I'm starting to realize this isn't an 'I'll just be gone for the weekend, I'll be back Monday morning' kind of gig." He swallowed and cleared his throat as tears began to well in his eyes once more. "I can't expect people to wait around for me while I go off on some epic quest to find my father. I need to say some good-byes."

"Oh." Sam didn't know what to say. "Right."

"Right." Dean cleared his throat again. "And then, could we get out of here? I need to get moving, Sam."

"Right!" Sam agreed. "Absolutely. We should be moving on. I'll start packing up while you're . . . Right."

Dean nodded and disappeared into the bathroom and Sam started gathering up their things. A part of him was actually tempting him to listen at the bathroom door, but he'd be damned if he would stoop that low. Even so, the voice wouldn't let him be.

 _That's the end of the girlfriend_ , it whispered. _Clear path, bro._

Sam hated that voice. Dean was severing the last normal, human connection that he had, and a part of Sam was rejoicing over it. What kind of a monster was he?

Then he recalled another voice, that of Saul Whitman:

_He'll turn you into a monster, and then he'll condemn you for it._

Sam shivered. And so he should.

. . .

Dean closed his cell phone, ripped off a length of toilet paper, wiped his face and blew his nose. It was probably one of the hardest conversations he'd ever had to have in his life but, now it was over, he was surprised it hadn't been harder. He guessed it diminished by comparison with everything else that was going on. Now it was done, mostly what he felt was relief, and that saddened him. Penny had deserved better than that from him. Well, what did that say other than that Penny deserved better than _him_? She was better off without him.

Dean flushed the toilet paper then went over to the sink, washed his face and brushed his teeth. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Not a pretty sight. _Definitely_ better off.

It was a big deal, though. It wasn't just the end of a relationship; it was the end of his old life. No road signs from here on in. He was off the map. Next stop, all points nowhere.

 _You'll give up everything you have for him, and then he'll abandon you_.

For a moment Dean was profoundly shaken by the thought. He was _doing_ it. He was giving up everything to go with Sam on this road trip to God knows where, and if Sam deserted him now he'd be boned five ways to Sunday.

Dean shook himself. He was listening to the fucked up thoughts of a dead guy! He was not going to let some screwed up angry spirit lay its issues on him. He had enough of his own to deal with. He dried his hands, gathered all the toiletries together, checked the cupboards then walked out into the main room.

Sam appeared to have packed everything up already and he was outside by the Impala. Dean went round the room checking all the drawers and cupboards one last time. There was a spare carton of salt in the kitchen cabinet. Well, that was just wasteful.

He picked it up and carried it outside. Sam was standing by the trunk. He was just checking his gun back into the weapons cache as Dean walked up.

"You forgot something." Dean held out the salt carton.

Sam smiled grimly, took it and dropped it into the cache then closed the cover. They gazed at each other for a few beats; both seemed to recognize that this was a significant moment. Then Dean reached up to close the trunk.

"Come on," he said. "We've got work to do."

And the trunk closed.

  
 

* * *

  
The Call

  
Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door  
In the middle of the night, what you want me for?  
Why d'you walk into my life, knock me to the floor?  
Tall, dark stranger, what you want me for?  
Are you an Angel or a Devil calling at my door?

With a fire like hell burning in his eyes  
He said, "Hey, brother, you'd better get wise.  
You're life's going nowhere and you don't know why.  
You'd better get your act together before you die!"

"There's a crossroads coming in your life,  
And your fate's gonna turn on the point of a knife."  
He sang "Hey, brother, come away with me.  
Let me take you, let me show you how it's gotta be."

Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door  
In the middle of the night, what you want me for?  
Why d'you walk into my life, knock me to the floor?  
Tall, dark stranger, what you want me for?  
Are you an Angel or a Devil calling at my door?

Then the fire came  
And I felt the flame,  
Felt a cold chill breath  
Then his hand on my collar  
And it felt like death.

In the cold harsh day  
We drove away.  
Am I dead or alive?  
I only know I'm walking at his side.

Hey, tall stranger knocking at my door  
In the middle of the night, what you want me for?  
Why d'you walk into my life, knock me to the floor?  
Tall, dark stranger, what you want me for?  
Are you an Angel or a Devil calling at my door?

 

 

* * *

**STILL TO COME**

  
Thank you for for reading "I Can Never Go Home", the double pilot episode in the serial _The Song Remains the Same._ I hope you've enjoyed the road so far, and I hope you will continue the journey with me. Episode 2, "Golem", will begin soon. In the meantime, here are some hints about upcoming episodes in the series. If you don’t want to know, you should scroll to the bottom of the page now! (NB: This is not an exhaustive list and the episodes won't necessarily appear in the order shown).  
  
**  
** **GOLEM**  
  
A woman’s death unearths a secret that menaces two families. Dean struggles with his grief and anxiety while he and Sam try to solve the mystery and defeat a creature made of mud walking. But is fighting the monster enough in a case where innocence is the first victim?

   
**PRANK’D**  
  
Dean Winchester is adjusting to his mother’s death and his father’s disappearance. Sam Campbell is adjusting to Dean Winchester. While the boys investigate an invisible monster plaguing a reality TV show, Dean hones the skills that will help him survive . . . always assuming Sam doesn’t kill him first.

   
**SOMETHING WICKED?**  
  
A little girl has an imaginary friend who knows too much. When Sam and Dean investigate, Dean is haunted by memories of the little brother he never had.

   
**DIVA**  
  
Dream come true or worst nightmare? Dean’s always wanted to work a case involving strippers . . . he just didn’t expect them to be him and Sam.

  
**WAYWARD SON**  
  
Sam is forced to confront the demons of his past when a case involves working with the Campbells, and he learns more than he wants to know about his relationship with Dean.

  
**AT LEAST WE’RE TALKING**  
  
Sam and Dean find themselves staring down the barrel of the Canon when Balthazar’s spell misfires and sends the original Dean and Sam Winchester into their world.

  
**BAD MOON RISING**  
  
The battle lines are being drawn as Sam and Dean prepare to confront Azazel and rescue John, but are all the demons on the same side?  
  
.

  
**CLOSING CREDITS**

Since I began writing this series I’ve received a lot of positive feedback about the soundtrack element of the series and the pop culture references. It has become a tradition on the other sites I post on to include a “closing credits” chapter for the benefit of readers who enjoy spotting all my in-jokes, pop culture references and allusions to other fandoms. Quotes and paraphrases from original SPN episodes are too numerous to list individually. For more information on these, please refer to your _Supernatural_ DVD box sets. Most of the allusions in this pilot episode were fairly overt and obvious, and some have already been explained in the actual text, but here are the rest in case there’s anyone (other than Sam) who isn’t familiar with some of them :)

Please insert your Supernatural soundtrack CD now and click on track 18. 

 

 **From the Prologue**  

   
Castor’s Passage is a made up town and alludes to the brothers from Greek mythology, Castor and Pollux.

 

  **From Scene 3**

   
“I'm surprised you didn't go the whole nine and say we were Agents Mulder and Skully.” – my tribute to SPN’s tribute to the seminal Sci-Fi/Fantasy show, _The X-Files._

   
“I didn't follow you out here so you could feed me Scooby snacks.” – alludes to that other supernatural classic, _Scooby-Doo, Where are you?_  

 

**From Scene 4**

   
“We're not in Kansas any more.” – alludes to SPN’s allusions to _The Wizard of Oz._

  

**From Scene 7**

   
"How're you doing?" 

Funny, but Dean has sometimes reminded me of Joey, from _Friends_. Maybe I’m not the only one because a couple of times in later seasons I noticed Dean using Joey’s stock phrase to pick up girls. I had to find an excuse to slip it in even though, in this context, Dean is genuinely asking Sam how he’s doing (with his research).

   
“Who am I? John Edward?” – the celebrity psychic. 

 

 **From Scene 8**  

"Baa-da baa-da baa-da ba-da-da. Baa-da baa-da ba-daaaaa . . ." he sang as he dropped the spoke Sam had given him into his lap and slid the keys into the ignition. He turned a grin toward Sam and tossed him a quick hitch of the eyebrows. "I ain't afraid of no ghost!" – Well, I had to get in a _Ghostbusters_ reference, now, didn’t I? :)

 “Cue bloody climax and Thelma and Louise finale.” – at the conclusion of the movie of the same name, the two friends drive off a cliff into the Grand Canyon. Jensen and Jared have been known to suggest that this might be an appropriate conclusion to the last ever episode of _Supernatural._

  

 **From Scene 9**  

"How about _Lethal Weapon 3_ – no, on second thoughts, let's not go there." In this movie, Mel Gibson and René Russo start comparing scars and the scene almost winds up R-rated.

   
"You're seriously telling me that _vampires_ exist?"

Sam closed the book and returned it to his backpack. "They do. But they don't glitter, and they don't date cheerleaders." – Some might consider it sacrilegious that I’ve included allusions to _Twilight_ and _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ in the same sentence . . .

   
“Let's go kick Casper squared into the light.” – alludes to the cartoon character, Casper the Friendly Ghost.

  

**From Scene 10**

   
“Any sign of Frank and Jessie, yet?" – Yep, that’s the James Brothers.

   
The sooner it was done the less opportunity the Gruesome Twosome would have to bother him and Sam. – alludes to cartoon characters from the show, _The Whacky Races._  
  
.

  **MUSIC CREDITS**

   
 AC/DC “Highway to Hell”

 Eagles “Heartache Tonight”

 Dean Winchester “The Call”

 

 **Disclaimer:** My thanks and apologies for all of the above and especially to the creators, writers and producers of _Supernatural._ I own nothing you recognize, and I write for love only.

**  
Please continue to the next chapter for a preview and link to Episode 2, "Golem"**

 


	9. Preview of Episode 2: Golem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Preview of Episode 2: Golem**  
> 
> 
> Summary:
> 
> A woman’s death unearths a secret that menaces two families. Dean struggles with his grief and anxiety while he and Sam try to solve the mystery and defeat a creature made of mud walking. But is fighting the monster enough in a case where innocence is the first victim?  
> 

**_Slough , Colorado_  **  
  
It had been raining earlier, but now the night was clear. The air was still and a heavy mist clung to the ground in the dark corners of the cemetery, while the grave itself was bathed in cold moonlight. It illuminated the dead leaves that lay sodden in the grass, and the newly dug earth was moist and glistening. It made it easy to work, shape, mold, and soon the rough clods began to take on form: first an oval the size of a human head, then an oblong barrel representing the torso; arms grew out from the trunk, legs, feet. Eventually a fully fashioned human figure lay stretched out over the grave, like the first lump of primordial clay, waiting to receive the spark of life.

The work done, the creator retreated into the shadows and was gone. Time passed. Clouds gathered once more and hid the face of the moon as the earthen chest began to rise and fall, and the creature took its first breath in darkness.

 

[Please click here to continue reading this story ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1301275)

****A/N: I'd like to again express my grateful thanks to the amazingly talented**[ ****](http://semarinan.livejournal.com/profile)[ **semarinan**](http://semarinan.livejournal.com/) **for another stunning gif. This episode is also available in Russian translation. See episode for details.**  **

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Я не смогу вернуться домой (часть 2): Дорога, которой нет конца](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564456) by [Yelynx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yelynx/pseuds/Yelynx)




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